If there were biodome colonies of working class types on the moons of Jupiter, and within the Io moon biodome number 7, a group of frustrated workers organized “pro wrestling-style” matches every other Saturday at the flea market (in the abandoned data center building), and I was the only guy there who would authentically play a heel, because nobody wanted to heel it up strongly enough to actually be hated by people, I’d wear a mask to at least conceal who I was, sort of, even though my bad tattoos would still give it away. But I’d wear a mask, probably something highly sequined, because I imagine even living in space on a Jupiter moon colony, I’d still have a girlfriend who loved to make shiny things. And my entrance music would be the 45 of The X-Man’s “That Body”, slowed down to 33 speed. And as I entered the ringside area, I’d make kissing motions at all the most handsome men and prettiest women, but picking them out of obvious partnerships, to rile as many folks as possible, and who knows, maybe even get laid.
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