The Creator is lollygagging about, reading The Paper, when AxeMan busts in on his morning ritual, “Look at this, AxeMan. What do you think it is?” says The Creator, carefully covering up the caption. Preoccupied, AxeMan says, “Who gives a shit.”
“No, c’mon, guess,” says The Creator.”
“A boat,” AxeMan says. A boat on its side.”  The Creator squints. “Bullshit. It’s a Frank Gehry Hotel. Anyone would see that.” “Well, I’m not anyone,” says AxeMan, “and I still don’t give a shit. Besides, I have some serious questions.”  “About what?” snarls The Creator (whom we will now call TC) who thought he had a pretty good post-ironic gambit with the capsized boat.  “Women,” says AxeMan.  “Have I known any women? How many? Have I had sex? Have I been married? Am I gay? Am I polymorphous perverse? What am I? I have a right to know. You wrote a whole book about me, with pictures, and the only women in it are my mother, my aunt and some woman I supposedly knew in California.”  TC stiffens. “I couldn’t afford to print more than 62 pages. Make it whatever you want. I couldn’t care less.”  “Liar,” AxeMan barks.  “Ooh, touchy, touchy,” says TC, wondering WTF is polymorphous perverse?  “You haven’t the guts,” AxeMan says. “You’re afraid to give me a sexual identity because people will think it’s you.”  “Please, no one’s gonna read this. It doesn’t matter.”  “So if it doesn’t matter, then tell me. I hate not knowing anything.” “Well,” said TC, “get an avatar. Be the best you can be. Or the worst. Just make something of yourself. I’m tired of the responsibility.”  “You’ll be sorry,” AxeMan said. “I am already something else, and I have as much credibility as you do.”  “Sure you do. Just run it by me before you go shooting your mouth off.”  “Fuck off,” AxeMan said. “Nobody edits me.”