WHO PHONES THE BIG FELLA?

Ring tones rouse the Big Fella in the four-seater, windowless. He’d fallen asleep with his lunch in his lap, after rainy day fliers boarded at the airport station. The train hustles toward a mid-route, step-down stop. “Oh no!” says the Big Fella. He refers to an interpersonal crisis. “I’m off tomorrow,” he admits, offering fifty percent of a solution. Maybe it’s Reason on the phone, maybe it’s Diminutive on the phone, maybe it’s Bad Mouth calling. The Big Fella nods. Every time he nods, he tries to interject, but his words sound like a finger rapped by fan blades whizzing on medium. The Big Fella resumes his lunch. “Mmmm,” he says, to the food. The phone sits on the seat-cushion beside him, gargling in digital dialect. The workers who sewed the Big Fella’s tremendous white shirt and his ballooning black sweatpants already envisioned a world of exaggeration. The train’s through-whistle clobbers the corridor of its through-action, claiming to be the baddest brute for miles.


This week’s double issue includes LOST MY WHITE PRIVILEGES.