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B2B6

Frank Floyd's personal ad looking for a roommate had finally gotten a response. Loosening his requirements from "must be female" to "females get a $200 monthly discount; call for more details! ;)" to "$1200/month, utilities included" had finally gotten him a candidate for a roommate. Frank did what the inspirational people on his TikTok account advised: he began to imagine his ideal roommate. Emphasis, in his mind, on the word "mate". She would be five feet tall, of an exotic race, and very interested in Libertarianism. She would enthusiastically accept his terms of lower rent in exchange for the free use of her you-know-what, and over time, fall in love with him, enthusiastically paying him for the privilege of sharing their evenings together. If she tried to run away, it would be WITH him, to an exotic locale.

Okay. Frank had imagined the perfect roommate. Now, she would enter his life, and never even want to leave. He opened his door to let her in.

What Frank saw was not the female of his dreams made manifest. He saw two white men, slightly taller than him, with plain faces like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He half expected them to be in overalls holding pitchforks and bundles of eggs. One of them had skin an unhealthy pale, like someone recovering from a terrible illness.

"So sorry, but there's only one bedroom available," Frank said.

"One's plenty," the man with the grayer hair said. "The name's Ike. This here's my boy Ronnie. He needs a place. Don'tcha worry, I won't be buzzing around at all."

"Paw," the man called Ronnie said, "this place stinks."

"A little elbow grease'll spiffy it right up."

Frank said, "Whoa, I never said you could stay here!" Frank was still holding out for his ideal roommate. Exotic! Willing to trade sex for cheaper rent! "You're not what I had in mind."

Ike, the older man, began to drone on about Christian charity, how giving leads to receiving and how God opens windows when he closed doors. Frank shut the door in their faces, but Ike slipped his business card under the door.

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One month later, Frank, still not finding any reply to his ad, dug through his trash and found Ike's business card. Frank called the number on it.

"You still looking to find a room?"

"'Tain't fer me, 'sfer muh boy. Who's this?"

"Frank Floyd."

"Ah, the place in Chinatown, Yamawaji-something. Just between you and me, Frank, I know my boy looked like shit when we met. I'll throw in something extra if you take him as a roommate. He doesn't do much but work and drink, he won't bother you none."

"I just gotta know one thing. How is he, uh, politically? He isn't one of those damn liberals trying to take away my freedom, is he?"

"No child of mine would ever be."

Frank cleared his throat. "Well then, Ike, I'd be glad to have Ronnie as a roommate. He could be a good guest on my podcast, too."

"Podcast?"