John Bodkin Adams unbuttons a button on his button fly. He is frustrated. He doesn't know why he bought these pants. At the time he thought he looked sexy. The mirrors in the fitting room were lying. The store clerk was lying. The store clerk is dead. John Bodkin Adams will never open up a fashion magazine ever again, not even if he needs the cologne samples to rub on his wife's face when she's sleeping. He'll rub a plant on her face instead. She'll smell like a distant forest and John Bodkin Adams will never know the nomenclature of his wife's face. John Bodkin Adams will never stop opening fashion magazines. John Bodkin Adams has stubby fingers. He only manages to unbutton two buttons. There are still three buttons left. He looks at his penis in despair. He is trying to pull his penis out. His penis is crooked. His penis is like a jagged neck of an animal that has been snapped by something, he thinks. He is wringing his hands in the air. John Bodkin Adams has failed. He is saying, "Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God." His penis looks like a crooked finger that might come out of a hole in a wall to jab you in the eye when you are looking in the hole in the wall. John Bodkin Adams is afraid of all the mental imagery that is being evoked by the appearance of his penis. He is tired. John Bodkin Adams wants to know why you haven't called him yet. He wants to know if he looks better in an orange or a purple t-shirt. He wants to know if his shoe size will have any relevance to his death. He wants to know if that thing in the refrigerator is still edible. John Bodkin Adams urinates everywhere.

Prathna Lor lives near Toronto, Ontario. His work has recently been published in elimae, Lamination Colony, NANO Fiction, Titular, and others. His blog is 'PATAPHYSICAL EXISTENTIALISM. Prathna Lor has never met John Bodkin Adams.