Jack stared at the white fan spinning above his head. He felt a little less numb. Today he would not cry. Unlike Yesterday, but yesterdays are like that, numbing and then piercing and then... nothing. Nothing, that is what he would love, nothing to happen, to have to happen, or likely to happen. Nothing would suit him he thought; he liked the sound of nothing.

Yesterday the moon rose too quickly, turning liquid to alcohol, food to vomit, he didn't like yesterday. Did I mention that yesterday he cried? He cried as his kid wrists got cut in the wind, painting everything red, blood dotted in every which direction but mostly on his words which smashed against his friends faces but that's besides the point and he couldn't even remember why he cried. He guessed it was something to do with the moon, though he was not a silly menstruating girl screaming over powder clouds, plucked eyebrows and the love of her life marrying Jennifer Anniston. He didn't care if his shoes clashed with his coat or if white socks meant he lusted for someone boy shaped with parts dangling where none should dangle (he does not fancy brad pitt don't even think it). He thumped his chest, in a manly manner. His pain was deep seeded if only he could remember what it was, fucking moon.

Today. 
 
Today Jack felt everything would be good. He sat down and watched speed, not for Keanu Reeves but for the explosions, death and shit, oh and that girl who drives the bus (slut). The hero shared his name, Jack. In fact a huge percentage of movie heroes seemed to be called Jack though he couldn't recall another (except for the colon cancer in fight club), perhaps it was a sign, perhaps he would be a hero or better still a movie star, he stared at the sky with the realisation of his own potential written across his face. He could be like those guys in my own private Idaho, he'd even kiss a guy for fame though it would revolt him, not brad pitt though he'd never go near that pretty boy *thump chest in a manly fashion*  
 
The only thing stopping him was his nipples. There was a hair on one of them. He wasn't quite sure how a hair follicle found it's way in there but he knew it was quite disgusting, not suitable for nude scenes or even walking topless on a beaches with a flesh coloured body grafted to his side for publicity purposes. He needed surgery, he was sure of it, perhaps it was a growth of some kind, cancer maybe. He would get it removed one day not for aesthetic sissy girl does my bum look big in this-where should I part my hair-taking it rugby style purposes, but for his own health and wellbeing. And the fame.  
 
Jack had had an idea of fame, he saw it in the faces on the screen and when he smiled slowly tilting his head sideways in that ever so seductive way he saw it smile back at him in the mirror. He was one with fame, it was imbedded inside him, so large was this fame it replaced his soul and possibly his internal organs, but he was okay with that. He would live forever on the screens and in the hearts of couples groping in the dark tingling ever so slightly as he disrobed his piece of meat co star with the plump lips and curving thighs as she moaned like a cow in heat (note the word "she"). He would nibble softly on her neck as she groaned back at him and the girls in the audience felt a tingle in their bellies and the boys slid their hands sneakily up their piece of meat co stars tops cupping breasts ignoring silent protests, the quivering hands shyly blocking advances and the all too luminous blushes in the dark. 
 
He had the power to inspire like that, he felt it glowing inside him, under his hard as bricks six pack bulging muscles (pull stomach in, thump chest manly) and long slicked back -aloof- sex god hair. He felt it flow through him like a chilled protein shake on an empty stomach, it buzzed with creatine and diet pills. His piece of meat co star would feel it too if he felt like giving her a private recital. He was sure it would improve the acting of any young actress, used to recalling over the top screaming out loud don't you know I'm used to faking it renditions on a movie screen. He bring out in her a low feminine moaning quivering voice, real nerves rubbing together in an all inspiring way (frontal not behind). Jack knew on seeing his naked boy shaped part dangle across the screen boys would become sweaty, and grab at panties with an all new desperation (more so than the usual oversexed violations) and girls would grow more and more curious about the mechanics of human reproduction and perhaps permit the boys to visit them for coffee.  
 
Jack was sure his fame and inspiration would produce several future boys and girls set for a dance of hands secretly duelling in the dark deciding the outcome of how far each kiss should take things. He knew this was his birthright; his only obstacle was a tiny hair follicle and possibly a growth under his nipple.