I’ll level with you: I’ve got Herpes.

 Genital warts?  I’ve got that too.

 Just to be on the up and up with you, you should probably be aware that I am infected with the virus that causes acquired immune deficiency syndrome.  Contact with my bodily fluids on an open wound will cause a dizzying array of symptoms. 

 Syphilis?  Yes ma’am.  The clap?  Yes sir.

 I’m the leveler.  I level with people.  They deserve at least that.  The ignorant bastards.  The self-involved little shits.  Instead of buying a paper, I just read the headlines from the newsstand.  I don’t flush after I piss in public toilets.  I’m a lousy tipper.  Existing is like a big game, you just see what you can get away with all day long.  I have to keep reminding myself that I’m still human.  I still shield my eyes from the sun just like the rest of these putrid little cocksuckers.

 A prostitute told me that I’ll die on December 3, 2018. 

 She says  I’ll be decapitated by a semi while trying to cross a busy road. 

 She says I’ll be dragged along until the majority of my arterial blood has gushed from my body. 

 She tells me this with her star charts spread on the floor of the Astrovan.  They’ve been stained with years of Big Macs and hair gel, specks of saliva from men who hack their phlegm into the open air like hyenas.  She pulls out her tarot cards.  The corners are dog-eared and falling apart.  Some have headless pictures.  The princes and queens look up as if begging for mercy.  The jester cries out for help.  The knight is ready to retire.  The prostitute itches her cheek and a fake mole comes off.  She wasn’t passing for Monroe anyway.  Not even Madonna.  If you took the wig off, she might be able to pass for Jamie Lee Curtis in her sixties.  I tell her I’ll level with her.  I’m not perfect.  But I’ve got ideas.  Big ones.  I can change the economy.  I can change your mind.  I can change your oil filter.  I can clean the gunk out of the bottom of your trash can.  Just vote for me in 2012.  Do it for your great grandchildren, so they can have a politician to look back on and say at least someone leveled with the people.  She smiles.  The dry lipstick caked on her lips cracks like a row of tiny earthquakes as she smiles, collecting all the cards into a big pile with her fake fingernails, all the royalty in one big mismatched heap on her lap.