Five minutes until show time.

Grime and sweat and shit and dirt are covering me. Around me, the trash of a hundred homes swirls and moves lazily. The strangest things end up in the sewer. A gold watch. Earrings. Bracelet. All of them fake. Probably belong to men and women trying desperately to appear wealthier than they are. These gaudy trinkets as cheap and fake as the people they belong to. A doll drifts by, and I pick it up, brushing filth from it.

Four minutes until show time.

The doll is made of plastic. Some starving kid in China or Vietnam made it in a sweatshop. Maybe the kid made a nickel for the day, a nickel that his or her parents took and spent on cigarettes or booze or drugs so they could distance themselves from the squalor they live in, so they could justify selling the kid into slavery, so they could pretend all the fucked stuff in their lives was someone else’s fault.

Three minutes until show time.

So little Barbie here, made from the blood and tears of our slanty-eyed hero, winds up in America, ready to live out the dream. Some spoiled kid gets it for a birthday present or something, tears open the wrapper, and they’re ecstatic, because they got something new. What Barbie doesn’t know is she could be a pile of shit wrapped in a box with a bow tie, and the kid would be just as happy, because it’s not important what you’re getting so long as you’re getting something new.

Two minutes until show time.

How long the spoiled kid enjoyed Barbie for is probably better measured in seconds than anything else. Barbie ends up tossed aside, discarded, a trophy of that one great instant where something new was obtained. But the only thing people like more than getting things they don’t need is getting rid of stuff they never wanted. That’s how I figure Barbie ended up down here with me.
One minute until show time.

So, Barbie, I’m going to go up there and avenge us. I’m going to go up there and remind people that just because they don’t want us anymore doesn’t mean we don’t exist. I’m going to go prove to the world that we exist. Maybe that’s selfish, but I don’t really care anymore. Barbie, enjoy your funeral, it’s more than you deserve. I guess this is where we all end up eventually, rotting away in the foundation of our cities. Society stands proud and tall on our corpses, Barbie, and you can’t see it until you’re down here looking up.

Show time.