Benito Cereno (benitocereno) wrote,
Benito Cereno

Benito Cereno: Hug Salesman episode 17, PLUS MORE. Also: YOU!

Episode 17: Swing for the fences; you're more likely to kill someone when you let go of the bat.

Panel one: Benito walks into the house, clothes disheveled, tie loosened, eye blackened. Nate looks up and reacts accordingly (hint: with surprise, or perhaps concern).

NATE: Holy crow! A black eye! Did you fail so spectacularly?

BENITO: I did. I did indeed.

Panel two: Nate stands, incredulous. Benito lays his things on a table (what things? I DO NOT KNOW. MYSTERY SUBTEXT), exhaustedly.

NATE: S...she hit you?

BENITO: What? Oh, no. Nothing like that. I did this to myself.

Panel three: Nate is now confused somewhat. Perhaps rightly so.

NATE: You gave yourself a black eye?

BENITO: Events proceeded basically as you have described them, yes.

NATE: You do this often?

BENITO: It's been a while. But, as I said, that story's for another time. How was your Disappointment Day?

Panel four: Nate beams momentarily, bird chest puffed as near to barrel as possible. Who has two thumbs and is lying about being proud of himself? That dude.


BENITO: The hell you say.

NATE: I ess you ehn. But you're not done. Obviously you did not make first and a half base.

Panel five: Benito reluctantly turns to his story.

BENITO: Obviously not.

NATE: How far would you say, then?

Panel six:

BENITO: Well, you know how, like, the shortstop? is that guy who stands between, uh, second and third base?

NATE: That seems unrealistically far.

BENITO: Yeah, no. You're right.

Panel seven:

BENITO: Imagine, like that guy, except instead of in between second and third, he stands between home and first.

NATE: Snaps, yo. You, like, fumbled in front of that guy?

BENITO: It was more like that guy ran and beat the crap out of me in the dugout, stole my wallet, and rented low-price hookers with my check card.

Panel eight: Beat.

Panel nine:

BENITO: I should probably not be allowed to speak in sports metaphors.

NATE: Yeah, totally.



Dream journal for not, like, last night, but the night before:

At a high school I never went to, I was being awarded for something mysterious and unexplained (most likely not an Eisner). Many people were there, few of whom I knew.

Or did I?

Apparently five of my high school friends were present, only in disguise. They wanted to pay their respects to me, but without my knowledge. It was only after two were caught that they admitted to their plot and ratted on the other three.

This seems somewhat apt: if people decide to like me for whatever reason, they seem to prefer I not know about it.


Most likely dream motif for tonight: dead, rotting horse.

Saw one today. Couldn't help seeing one today. There were pictures of it everywhere, most notably on the table where I was trying to eat.

Actual conversation from today:

"Hey, Benito, what are you doing?"
"Eating this delicious hamburger you made for me."
"Come to this window and watch that truck drag the horse carcass across the street. Oh, can you hold up the little one so she can see?"

True story.



So another Disappointment Day has passed, so that makes it a new year. Two double oh seven. An excellent year for espionage.

But here's what I want to know on the new year:

Who are you? I know you're there; I don't know who all of you are. If you've never spoken up, please take this opportunity to introduce yourself. I want to know who's spying on me.

Tell me what you did for Disappointment Day! Tell me your Letdown resolutions! I wanna hear them!

Aaaaaand, go!

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