The Game

welcome anytime, man. I don’t even mind that you call me every day.
    I envision this lounge as not being about pickup, but rather about something bigger: life goals. Women are a huge part of that, and we work together to help each other obtain them. However, I’d like to extend our topics to money, social status, and other ambitions.
    I think one of life’s biggest difficulties is not being able to share your problems honestly. So, state your issues here, and you have a hundred intelligent, trustworthy men who can assist you.
    Also, tell us your goals and objectives. If you don’t have any, now is the time to make them. I want to see all of us get our shit together and reach self-fulfillment. Travel, women, money, social status, whatever. Let’s assist each other along the way. Let’s all work on the same projects and synergize our efforts like a corporation.
    I want to see Vinigarr 5 in his own apartment with a kickass car, coin in the bank, a hot nanny to help care for his kid (a nanny he gets to boink), and a couple girls who love him to death. He should own sections of New York—nightclubs or whatever. He should be driven around in his own limo. He should run his own escort agency.
    Papa, you sponge off daddy. And the enemy of the best is the good. I want to see you focus as much on wealth as you do on relationship mastery. You have the drive to become a multimillionaire. You need to step out from daddy’s financial shadow and dwarf his success. Imagine harnessing your sex drive and using it to create a successful business.
    This is what I need: I need to complete promotional material to pitch to networks for a one-hour magic special. I need major funding to produce this. I’m not bullshitting or having fame fantasies when I say I can do it. People who have met me know I can play the role all the way. Once I have the special on the air, I can put on a Vegas show. I’ve designed the show in detail already.
    Anyone interested in helping? Think of the after-parties! Let’s build something. Let’s exploit the fact that I need attention (must do shows) every day or I don’t feel normal.
    This isn’t a freebie thing either. I don’t believe in that. Work with me, and you’ll get paid. Just tell me what your objectives are first so we can work on all our shit together! Gentlemen, let’s get down to business.

    —Mystery
    P.S. I’ve been reading Napoleon Hill’s Think and Grow Rich, and I want to suggest something related. If you regularly masturbate, you can easily become addicted. This addiction comes in the form of daily regularity that curbs your desire to go out. It also does not allow you to harness your sex drive, which can be used to motivate yourself to work on wealth-building projects.
    If you aren’t getting laid on a regular basis (which happens to all of us from time to time), then don’t just choke ‘til you’re broke. Set a date with yourself. Only jerk it once a week. If you jerked it today, set the jerk date for seven days from now. If you don’t get a girl between then and now, you’ll have something to look forward to. Make it a good jerk! Use the best porn and hand lotion. Look forward to it and this will keep you from wasting your life away jerking it daily and focusing constantly on the pain of not having a girlfriend.
    In the meantime, harness your sex drive and build something.
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    5 A former workshop student from Brooklyn, Vinagarr is a single father who earns a living as a driver for an escort service.

The morning after his codeine-high post, Mystery lay slumped in the backseat of Caroline’s car, wrapped in a blanket and shrouded by a hat pulled low over his eyes. Beyond asking us to drop him off at his family’s condo, he didn’t say a word, which was rare for him. It reminded me of our Eastern European road trip. Except this time, Mystery wasn’t sick—at least not physically.
    We parked and took the elevator to his sister’s apartment on the twentieth floor. It was a cluttered two-bedroom hovel crammed with people. Mystery’s mother, a zaftig German woman, sat on a beat-up flowerpatterned sofa chair. His sister Martina, her two children, and her husband, Gary, were crammed into a couch next to her. Mystery’s father was shut up in his apartment four floors above them, sick with liver disease from a lifetime of drinking.
    “Hey, how come you don’t have a girl with you?” Mystery’s thirteen-year-old niece, Shalyn, chided him. She knew all about his