I am about to attempt to portray the world of Francis Meyo. Usually in the interest of tact and privacy last names are redacted from this sort of thing, however I will make an exception due to the extreme danger Francis poses to all decent and honest members of society. This piece is not for your entertainment. Consider it a public warning; a long needed declaration of his unspoken ambition to destroy the world of men. He is the sort of creature about whom old men refuse to speak after dark, whose name and activities are synonymous with hushed voices and tightened sphincters. He is the sort of man whom, if you can see him, it is already too late. I will soon find a way to document his movements online so that anyone may make the necessary adjustments to avoid him.
I have never blamed another human for my failures or flaws. I take great pride in the fact that when I fuck up I am the agent of my own inadequacy. In keeping with this spirit, I have never pointed a finger at another person after something bad happened to me and leveled an accusation, e.g. “That kid fucked me. If that guy had not done what he did I would be fine.” I’m better than that. The only exception I will make is in the case of Francis, who has screwed me over on so many occasions that I cannot in good faith continue to blame myself when he is a part of any equation.
And I am not alone in this – one friend refers to Francis as “The bus driver,” in tribute to Francis’s penchant for conversationally throwing him under the bus every time they’re in a bar together. See this typical conversation starter: Francis, talking to unattractive female: “This is my friend Robert, he finds you wildly attractive.” Example two: (speaking loudly in direction of unattractive girl) “Wow The Leach. That is disgusting, why would you say you wanted to do that to her? (To girl directly) I am so sorry for my friends rudeness, he assured me he would be better.” That sort of shit is his bread and butter; friends are not so much humans as glorified pawns to be carelessly tossed to the winds at his leisure.
I think one of the main contributing factors to Francis being terrible is his age. By the time he graduated he was up to 8 years older than the youngest students. This disparity meant that no one at school was on the same page as him mentally – he was a man among boys in every sense of the phrase. And what is the natural state of things but for elders to assume positions of authority? Using this line of thought, he is naturally placed in a position of power by his – I use this term loosely – friends, due to his age and experience, though his formidably calculating intellect and girth surely helped ensure his social domination. He was never truly one of us, rather perpetually some other, foreign and sinister figure who used his pulpit to sow discord and confusion amongst the masses.
Were I given to wagering (not so much since the accident), between the ages of 15-21, your average human probably costs himself (not spends, note – costs himself, as in accidentally outlays more cash than he should or expected to) about $1500-2000. Because I am significantly less respectful of money than your average human, I have cost myself somewhere upward of $4500 over the course of the last 6 years. If we were to turn my monetary follies into a pie chart, the largest single slice would have “Fuck Francis” emblazoned across it in bold.
The worst part about this is that not only does he come by his evil ideas naturally, he also carries them out insidiously. His weapons are not hammers and anvils but softly spoken promises and wheedling solicitations; a transcript of his conversations would reveal choruses of “(insert name) come on! Why won’t you do this?” “Just pick me up, you’re not busy.” And my personal favorite, “It’s fine… No come on… it’s fine don’t worry.” His confidence and ceaseless inveigling strike steady and monotonous, like waves against the shore, eroding what little resistance I have until I am resigned to following out his plans.
I don’t want this thing to carry on forever, so I am going to make one fast diversion and describe Francis’s interactions with people in a soccer setup, because this is sort of indicative of the overbearing way he lives his life. The first time I met Francis was in my first intramural game for The Football Team freshman year. It was outdoors, and he was playing barefoot while everyone else had cleats, because Francis doesn’t give a shit.
Francis plays as if rules are more nebulous suggestions than concrete guidelines written on stamped official documents and recognized as sacrosanct the world over. His ass, which is the most tremendous ass I have seen outside of the Internet, is a weapon of m-ass destruction. He uses it primarily to shove people, and his anal hip-checks have prompted cries of illegality and dismay from players for years. His preferred method of defense is thrusting himself parallel to the earth in front of onrushing dribblers, leaving them to trip over him in confusion. When people round upon him with accusations of ill intent he will then cry, “I slipped! No don’t look at me like that, I swear, I fell!” eyes shifting incredulously back and forth, mouth agape in astonishment, the very picture of an innocent victim. He sucks.
Now that you have more of an understanding of his lack of character, his relationship with alcohol must be discussed. First, Francis can drink more than you. I can say that despite having little idea about this my audience beyond my best friends mother and a couple bored collegians. If any hardened alcoholics are reading this, I would be happy to arrange a drink-off, though only if I am not held accountable for the disposal of your alcohol-poisoned corpse. People who alcoholically engaged with Francis have been found wandering aimlessly, eyes hopelessly glazed over, their vocal chords reduced to spouting strains of gibberish with great conviction, and there are unconfirmed reports of at least two people found fast asleep under bushes in the dead of winter.
Yet the real problem I have with his drinking has nothing to do with his consumption, it is that Francis considered me his personal drinking chauffeur and stooge. No time was too random for him to demand that I bring him to a liquor store, and the words “I’m busy, fuck off” apparently mean absolutely nothing to him. No day is sacred, and the text “Drink?” was sent to me so often it may as well be my cell’s background. On more than one occasion Francis called me at noon, demanding an immediate ride off campus to pick up lunch and liquor. He would then follow me back to my house, where he would drink on the couch until passing out, though not before commanding me to “wake him up at 2:30,” in order to drive him back to work on campus.
The day after Founders Day the rest of campus spent in the library, nursing their collective hangover and doing… something, I’m going to assume. I have no idea. I would have loved to be doing whatever it was they were doing, but I did not get to, because my wants are subservient to those of my African God. He made me drink all afternoon, while shuffling between a variety of highly exposed locations so bystanders could watch in awe. It was the most disgusting day I have ever spent, our drinking interrupted only by a trip to the local bar to eat piggy mac, a massive bed of pulled pork asleep beneath the warmly blanketing covers of piping hot macaroni and cheese.
As a final note, Francis was a part of a majority of the bad things that happened to me in college. The reason I had no gas in my car all semester? Francis made me drive him everywhere. The reason I got kicked out of the 3v3 soccer tournament in May? Francis let the administrator who ejected me play on his team for no reason. The reason why I was hospitalized for alcohol consumption freshman year? Francis convinced me earlier that day that taking 12 shots in 30 minutes would be just what the doctor ordered. The night I broke my fucking laptop by drunkenly spilling a glass full of brandy on it? Francis demanded I get drunk with him that afternoon, and I had pretty much blacked out at dinner after two hours of shots and Two and a Half Men. The night I blew $100 on drinks at Billy Bobs? Francis. Was. There.
I’m trying to think of a good way I can end this. I’ve said most of what I meant to say when I started, and am too lazy to go back over it and make it a little better. I could honestly go on and on. I could write about how ludicrously strong he is, and that time he was so retarded drunk he tried to lift a car. His constant stroking of my legs when we’re in the car together, the way that his idea of singing along to music is really just to unleash a shrill, ululating scream and drown out the song. The way that he tells people that it’s ok when it’s not ok, or how he tells everyone a different story about the scar on his eye – lion? No one knows. I’m not even sure what he’s doing right now, although if he is not somehow controlling whatever form of government Kenya has it is purely due to laziness, as he would likely have little trouble. He is a devil in flesh, a creature whose very presence portends ill fortunes as surely as any broken mirror. I live in fear of the thought that an ocean and half a continent cannot keep me from his grasp.