There was a guy there who had so much cologne on that it annoyed him and caused a headache, all at once, it was a ball of hell that smacked him in the nose and made his stomach suffer all in the same breath, and it lasted too long. He knew it would last too long and that was part of what sucked about walking into the room with the well-groomed prick who made it all happen.
So he ditched the room and curled up like the larva of something, and he refused to explain himself to concerned friends who poked their ever loving heads into that room.
Two mornings after, he walked out, finally, and found that dirt was pure joy on the parts of his feet that had been pointed at a wall from some bedridden vantage point for all of that time.
He thought only that cologne was somehow foul now.
Like vomiting a food as a child… That food was ruined.
And he never wore cologne afterward, clearly.
It never became common to run across those cologne pricks, so he didn’t become an activist.
He just knew he’d get a bitch of a headache if some cologne loving hipster happened by.
This worry dwindled across a stack of years and eventually he even complimented some bullshit fragrance that some prick had dumped on his body to protect against his own cartoon horrors, and the guy laughed and agreed awkwardly.
They both enjoyed a terror heavy run when they fled the idea of a large carnivorous chicken together. They both felt like they had made friends, because fear and meat were profoundly linked, and they saw it together exclusively.
They got pissed off at commas together.
They read books.
Never had enough napkins.
Nobody ever answered.