Pure Fist

Fist flicks the pages of the latest lame novel. Fist laughs at the classics and their ludicrous lessons. Fist scoffs the pop-sci books; their flares of a promised future are propaganda for funding and fame. Fist fiddles with the art books, fishing for boobs.

The Philosophy of Fistography is next. Under Kant, there's a "Staff Picks" card, left by Chris. He works behind the counter, all two-day-old stubble and cardigans, his badge proudly wonky.

"Kunt - Fistique of Pure Reason - Chris recommends this because -" and I couldn't read the rest. And Chris saunters past, grinning a dozy, half-stoned grin, smiling at the card like it's a spare, massive cock of his.

And all fist buys this lunch is a feast of brief comfort from the sandwich shop. But still he goes on, without even a paper cut.