Maladjust

Debut jitters and I’m sharing the ring with five fucknuts, all with varying degrees of experience, except for the common denominator that they all have more than me. Was hoping for more of a layup at match one, but we play the cards, blah blah blah. Win if possible, lose if unavoidable, but make sure whatever happens, I’m the one who everyone’s talking about. If you want a disease to freak people out, it needs a name and it needs to spread. If I’m gonna keep running with the infection theme, the symptoms need to be unmistakeable. Instead of running to the toilet, I want the future, what to even call them – Maladroids, Maladiots, Maladrones – scrambling to their screens when they hear I’m on. Phones, laptops, televisions. The disease called Maladi, growing ever so viral.



I should crack myself in the face with my own elbow for that one, but branding is a bitch and I’m too deep into the venoms and virii to turn back now. Gimme a couple of months and every angst teen in the crowd will be masked up in green, ready to be part of the Maladivolution(not on branding, come up with a better name). Enough time to sell the implication that I’m teetering on techno-terrorism with an army of unseen, yet fanatically loyal and definitely real followers. Costuming wise, maybe 50% ninja, 25% lucha, 25% scene kid. We can fuck with the levels as needed until the perfect balance is struck, and then your girl can make a mint selling Maladi approved merch to the malicious masses. Let them live their wildest fantasies through me, spitting in the face of a vague and theoretical higher authority. Giving what’s popular a middle finger, while my other hand is snatching wallets. I’m here for their hearts, their minds, their beautiful green moneys, though I do naturally accept Venmo.



And so, the strategic pitch. The classic make-yourself-more-than-a-person-in-the-mind-of-your-opponent game plan, tweaked for a 2022 audience. My dipshit(presumptive, yes) opponents don’t know me from their Aunt Fanny, and while a lack of experience is a big ass disadvantage, being shrouded in mystery makes me mighty. I’m a variable. I could be anything, nothing, everything. Not ideal, showing up for your first date to find out it’s a six-way scramble and you’re expected to just jump in and join the sucking, fucking and pegging with no guarantee of a fancy dinner. But adversity either makes us stronger or leaves us irreparable traumatized. Personally, I’m optimistic. Show up a little late, with everyone all coited out and toss their refracting asses over the top rope. Easy peasy Japanesey, please disregard the cultural appropriation of my ninja mask.



Big fan of the path of least resistance approaching. Keep your head down, so the boisterous boys and gals get out whatever aggression they have from too many hugs or not enough hugs, until they have thoroughly walloped one another. Topple whoever outlasts the other four, maybe a little mist to the face and Night One of the Maladi Epidemic begins.



Enjoy, have fun, get that blood pumping. It’ll only kill you faster.