The Man, The Mountain

Daryl Fichte waited impatiently for the clock to strike seven, marking the official beginning of his super-charged night of calculated fun. The ball was now rolling. Though it seemed to be moving towards some kind of amorphous emptiness, the importance lay in the motion itself.

Daryl had made dinner reservations for seven thirty at an Italian restaurant downtown called The Villa. He was well aware that the appearance of the restaurant greatly surpassed its financial standards. However, being fairly confident that he could avoid menus altogether by ordering for his brother and his brother’s girlfriend, he felt vaguely assured. His brand new, razor -sharp, black cell phone read seven o’ clock with striking precision. This meant that he could now begin to make his way over to the restaurant, giving him just enough time to arrive ten minutes late. Under this plan of action he wouldn’t have to wait in the bathroom of the coffee shop next door. This used to be Daryl’s method when avoiding the dreaded look of desperation. He eventually realized though that the sounds and smells contacted often affected his appetite at dinner, emasculating his otherwise monolithic being.

His car was parked at the perfect, most convenient stall in the lot below his building. He had claimed it, and his ownership rested upon an underlying mechanical structure built around his strength as a man who was not afraid to make decisions regardless of whether or not they were correct. Daryl retrieved his sleek, stylish ride and was on his way. As he drove, he listened to a soothing loop of pop hits. Daryl felt the fluid of success oozing from each track as they predictably made their way back to the home key. Thoughts of showering under a transparent, thick fluid of success permeated throughout Daryl’s fat skull. This vibrating mental picture distracted him and he momentarily ceased his trademark tailgating. Daryl was an aggressive mammal and vehemently pushed for this attribute to be punctuated in all areas of life. It was important to be a violent driver. Tailgating was proactive, pointed, confident; a smart approach. After shaking this provisional distraction he quickly returned to his vehicular masculinity. Accompanying the pop music was the sound of a British woman on the GPS system that Daryl had often dreamed of sleeping with. Daryl stuck his head out the window, allowing the hot gel in his curly hair to cool off. He was halfway there when he realized that a large vein on his forehead was inexplicably pulsating. Instead of being alarmed he wondered if it perhaps suggested some sort of muscular focus.

Finally pulling up to the restaurant Daryl noticed that his favourite valet Jeff was not on duty. The irregularity was off putting to say the least. The night seemed tilted and Daryl suddenly felt queasy. He quickly gulped a sparkling vitamin water to revitalize his senses, and slowly regained his composure. He would bite the bullet, test out the new valet and simply hope for the best. The valet's flat face made him seem at least conceivably capable. Daryl took deep breaths and thought of his predictable pop music; advice his highly regarded Jewish therapist had recently offered. The valet took his keys and drove his car to the lot.

Daryl entered the restaurant suavely. He made sure everyone in the room absorbed his disinterest and awesomeness. If they didn’t they were either insecure or some sort of social vegetable. Spotting his brother’s table, Daryl swiftly winked, snapped his fingers, and pointed a gun-shaped finger and thumb in their direction. He strolled over, winking at waitresses and pointing his weapon all over the room like a brazen hostage making the last ditch effort. His brother Mark smiled politely and said hello. Daryl opened his mouth and tried to form a smile. Being overly conscious of teeth exposition however, the smile came out awkwardly. Daryl could only afford to repeatedly bleach some of his teeth. He made sure the most visible teeth got the treatment, but unfortunately a natural smile still exposed an ugly tusk or two. Daryl felt confident that the value of bleach-white teeth outweighed that of a natural smile.

He asked if the two had received menus yet. They had not. Daryl called the waitress over to order for his party of three. He stared her down and felt comforted by the conventionality of her blonde appeal. Daryl smoothly asked how she was doing. Rolling her eyes, she politely answered “fine” while looking elsewhere. Daryl asked if she came to the restaurant often. Soon realizing that the question was poorly chosen he attempted a retraction but fell short. He mumbled his name and nervously bumped his knee under the table. Karen asked if they should perhaps order dinner and Daryl snorted with laughter. The waitress approach was in ruins. He would order in shame and try to put the travesty out of his mind. It was okay. He’d get over it. He was much bigger than this charade. He was bigger than the restaurant. Daryl was a gigantic mammoth.

He shuffled in his seat and quickly ordered two porterhouse steaks for the men at the table and a salad appetizer for Karen. Karen looked at Mark imploringly. Daryl was well aware of this wretched facial expression. Relationships were style-crushing compromises that required abandonment directly after copulation. Karen was to go her separate way after dinner, which pleased Daryl greatly. Karen just didn’t get it. It wasn’t her fault. It just wasn’t in her nature to understand. Daryl had an essence that certainly could not be understood. It resisted comprehension, but gracefully accepted worship. When a woman attempted to break that force field and figure out the Fichte she only insulted his infinitely powerful architecture. Her duty was to remain in distant, obscure awe. Daryl Fichte wasn’t just an animal. He had precedence. He was better. He was heavier. He didn’t think: He did. Daryl followed the singular path. He was always right. He had a system, rules, a code, and various lists with checkmarks. He had the right toothbrushes, hair gel, and moisturizers that made him look younger. He had the keen eye and a heartbreaking tongue. He stood taller than all and destroyed everything in his path. Daryl Fichte was an anvil.

Dinner had concluded. Daryl had easily been the funniest and most interesting of the three at the table. He had regaled Karen and his brother with humorous anecdotes about misadventures at the salon and grease monkeys that couldn’t follow directions. He certainly was a charmer. Daryl and Mark were now on their way to a nightclub. The valet had returned Daryl’s stylish ride unscathed. Daryl felt so relieved that he momentarily choked up and lost his breath. If anything had happened to his vehicle, his body certainly would have exploded, spraying restaurant patrons, valets and pedestrians with blood, intestines and brain matter. Thankfully his large body remained intact. Daryl and Mark got in the car and drove off. Daryl glanced at the time. It was only nine o’ clock. Waves of alarm shot through his body. If they showed up at the nightclub too early they would be branded losers, and they would have no choice but to shamefully return to their respective residences. The nightclub was only a fifteen-minute drive away but Daryl needed to arrive in style sometime after ten if he wanted to wake up alive. Mark didn’t feel that it was necessary to wait around until ten o’ clock. Daryl furiously screamed at him. The vein in Daryl’s forehead was now throbbing and imposing. Mark quieted and conceded to wait until ten o’ clock. Daryl whimpered a little bit and then proclaimed that the discussion had officially been adjourned.

They drove in circles until ten o’clock. Daryl felt dizzy. His mind was spinning and he knew that his speech would only worsen as a result. The solution to this was simply to speak more forcefully. If he could infuse his words with aggression, his approaches would at least be acceptable, even if what he said didn’t quite make sense. Now a little after ten, the nightclub called to Daryl in all his grandeur. The two men sauntered into the club, God’s Martini. The music invasively rumbled and roared, strangely complimenting the bi-polar attack of multi-coloured lights. Daryl swiftly scoped out targets. Across the room was a girl Daryl instantly knew he’d forget as soon as she was out of sight. She was perfect. Not a single distinct flaw. She was blonde but non-descript; just the way Daryl liked them. Daryl wished Mark adieu and made his way over to the girl. He smiled at her, carefully exposing his bleach white teeth. They were so bright one could conceivably spot his large mouth from space. Daryl offered to buy her a drink. The girl informed him that although she had probably already had too much to drink she'd accept more if he were paying. Daryl got vodka for the two of them. He told her friends that the two would meet them out on the dance floor. Her friends went out to dance and Daryl soon escalated his approach with silky, smooth conversation.

The girl was quiet as Daryl talked at her. As he drank his words began to feel slow and strange as they stumbled off his lips. There were only two things he had to keep up though: To convey interest and higher-value. Daryl was enormous, naturally higher-value wasn’t hard to convey. He had to make sure he conveyed enough interest though. He had been insulting her all night to keep her on the line but he feared the method was no longer effective. He leaned in close and told her that she didn’t smell as bad as he thought she did at the beginning of the night. She didn’t respond. She had been mentally absent for a while. Daryl leaned in again and told her that he liked her shiny designer shoes. She asked if he wanted to go somewhere with her. Daryl smiled confidently. He had conquered her. He had crushed her. He agreed and they left together. The girl was barely able to walk but Daryl was too consumed with his victory to notice. They got into his car and drove away.

Daryl’s skin-tight purple dress shirt was thick with manly sweat. The girl was asleep. Daryl was unaware. He turned on his pop music and sang along stupidly. He had done well but the pickup was not yet a done deal. He had to remember to convey masculine power while on the road. It was imperative that he tailgated and drove aggressively. Daryl was drunk and driving like a madman, but more importantly, higher-value was being conveyed to the sleeping girl next to him. Daryl looked over at her, finally noticing that her eyes were closed. He didn’t know what to think. His mind rested on this. Approaching a yellow light Daryl stared blankly; it too meant nothing to him. He continued to tailgate. The car ahead of his stopped suddenly as the light turned red and Daryl violently crashed into it. Both he and the girl went flying through the windshield.

He was bigger than the windshield though. He was more important than this moment. Daryl Fichte was more than just a man. He was a mountain.

The mountain fell.

written by Elias Campbell