@camera_duels

A merry #ferry fuck you too. Always keep the weapon ready duelists, you never quite know when the pic pirates will shine their toothless grin in the general direction of your Disney channel spinoff. There I was, doing my best syndication, when a sense began to tingle deep within my poopdeck. Acid reflux? No. Sea sickness? The BC ferry poutine leaves a lot to be desired. A duel! Here? The paps. A rare one, my radar is getting more keen. The assassin of the dueling universe, these rogues build a career off stealth. Little did they know, so did I. With a confidence as ripped as his circa 2001 Abercrombie and Fitch denim, I brandished my barrel with lightning speed. The quick trigger of his weapon sprayed shots blindly while I pulled the laser- one continuous steam of social media validation in video form. So take a Bow Gaga hit single 2008, this star-a-board is Stern on leaving u at Port. Also go eat a bag of cocks. #dontfeedthewildanimals

Welcome to another riveting installment of the world is dark and grey and moral integrity is at an all time low. Here we have the classic twofer bankshot. Whilst trying to admire my own reflection past a bottle of aperol (a sprouse family tradition), I spied with my medium sized, heavily bagged eye- a young couple interfering with my ritual. The boy, cautiously garbed in a sports cap with a large B on it (which I can only assume stood for bastard man) (idk #sports), and his girlfriend?/social media manager snapping a duel through the reflection in the bar mirror. In an act of solidarity she showed the boy the scope of her weapon, which caused him to feign intrigue in yet another one of her dinner captures. A fake smile, a paid check, the day, and the relationship-saved. Oh domestic bliss. A night out feasting on both a succulent meal and my succulent patience. Fear not, I shall spice things up for you. I can tell from the quickness of your draw that you order your dishes: mild. #cameraduels

Since this 2020 world has decided to embitter us all so traumatically, I’ve decided it’s time to air my aggression out on Instagram yet again. Yes, I’ve been stocking images. Sleeping on duels like some petty dragon. I’ve not posted for a while because, frankly, none of you deserve even an iota of schadenfreude in your sinful little existences. BUT, being the CW martyr I’m contractually obliged to be, ill once again fasten myself to your family’s sinful toilet, and give you the quality shitposts you deserve. Let’s get right back into it shall we? Screaming. wailing. in silverlake? Not unusual. Intelligentsia must be closed again. No, not this time. ‘Twas a duel. La traffic is not known for its humanity. Here is a fine example of such shame. While hanging out the side of my best friend’s ride, I was hollered at. A woman, whose open mouthed grin could easily fit a panini, mask down, cooing from the back of her Uber. Looked to be an expensive ride too, black, like her little shriveled heart. #idontwantnoscrub #cameraduels

Don’t lie to me. Have you ever been on the receiving end of this face? Have you ever been so confused as to the nature of the emotion someone is trying to show you? Expressions, gestures, emotions- these are signals- methods of connecting to our environment, to other fleshy apes looking to fight or fuck, these signals ensure survival. We are coded to understand. But someone tell me, what in gods name is this face saying? I am genuinely confused. We only see this face in dreams- some twilight fog where nothing is quite concrete or formless, but just recognizable enough to be terrifying. It seems as if her body truly shut down. I feel a bit of pity actually, because I imagine if she were being stalked by some larger creature- this is the final face she would make before embracing the long dark. This is her body’s last word to the world. Some expression that when imagined audible, only conjures a fart-like sound to mind. An emotion that is only 1/16th human and the rest just raw brown noise made flesh. What a horrifying open casket. At least she can live knowing she has created a new emotion. Please pray for this duelist.

There are lots of people in this wide ol world that want to see me laid out- Bludgeoned by some frat boy’s knuckle or canceled by some mommy blogger on a nicotine stained keyboard. And while my survival radar has, unfortunately, become more keen over time, there is no group to which I am more wary than the teenage girl. Yes, you heard it well. I am quite afraid of little girls. And while my illusory masculinity has taken a bit of a bruising over my career, allow me to explain myself. There is no demographic more diligent than the teenage girl. They always know where I am, they always know who I am, and they are also responsible for WHY I am. Take this duelist as example. She had thought herself the rogue while riding the escalator on her slow descent into hell. Yes, I was going to the same destination, but we always figured that didn’t we? Both Dante and Virgil here couldn’t help but stifle their demonic wails as they spied me, quick to pull out her phone and capture the whole event for a ~whopping~ 47 likes on her personal Instagram. A shame the denim couldn’t hide the overwhelming musk of sweat and mischief that filled the central London tube entrance, and my nose had smelled something funny coming from her general direction. Her friend’s lokinous side eye and hand cupped to her mouth as if breathing into a phantom paper bag was all too telling. I knew I was in for a fight. I readied my pistol and fired first. They say her ghost still haunts that station, her muddled peppa squeals signaling her next young male victim. Hope to see you again when Im back on the river styx. #cameraduels

There is absolutely no angle that works less effectively than this. The duelist, who I imagine is quite an honest man, a poor liar, a cherry tree chopping son of Sam, could not have concealed his camera with LESS talent. If he had tucked the device into his sock, he would have managed to find a way to jettison the device onto my nose. Now you may be thinking “cole, perhaps he wanted to be seen.” A fair point. In fact since this account’s birth, I’ve had more people attempt to invade my sacred space, my anxiety body, to simply be hosted upon the gallery. Therefore, I’ve excluded the duelist’s face from this photograph, if only to shield my infantile audience from the devilish mixed expression of mischief and ancient lust that marked his image. Also, here we have a rare treat- a digital camera. At the very least, the camera phone has other applications that could be used to disguise the attempt at photography. But not this. This tool has ONE purpose -aside from bludgeon- and that is to take photos. There is no hiding its function if pointed at someone, finger cocked plainly upon the shutter release. He was likely distracted by what I assume was some hipster New York shit like Mitski playing in his headphones that juggling subtlety, walking, and listening to music at the same time was simply too great a task for Franklin Cosmos here. Nonetheless, don’t bring a knife to a gun fight.

To be a duelist means that, on many occasions, one must be prepared for the long range encounter. You may be looking at the first photo and thinking, “wow, mother must have been right, maybe I am dumb. I can’t even see the duelist.” Let me hold your hand through this one just like your kumon tutor. Scroll right, ahhh yes, there she is. Sometimes the camera plays the revolver, sometimes the rifle, but for me, it always plays the victor. And pro tip to the casual duelist: if you want to remain unseen, may I suggest you stay away from high socks and sandals. You aren’t pulling yourself away from an anime binge to help dad unload the groceries, you’re in the middle of town- and this town ain’t big enough for the two of us.

Four. Four asses in one shot (duelist excluded), ripe and ready for their creeping jort and cargo silhouettes to be devoured “hole”-heartedly by my ass hungry audience. BEHOLD my friends, a stunning example of a common, amateur approach to subtly. A move I have coined “the straw man.” The technique involves manipulating one’s partner into standing in front of me, at safe distance, as if to take a casual photo. But then, assuming I’ve relaxed my guard with some entry level puppetry, the duelist peers around the friend like some guilty dog back from behind the family room couch. The camera, you see, is already zoomed in to spy me in the background, foreground occupied almost entirely by friend’s nose bridge. Thus the duel is settled, and the unaware are taken victim. But I am not unaware. No, in fact, I am aware of all of these surroundings. The last bit of hair stuck and splayed out upon your friend’s sweaty upper back. The small seagull walking almost imperceptibly against the like-colored street near captain cargo. The bathroom sign pointing you to the right receptacle to deposit your phone. And I am most. certainly. aware. of your technique. Come back after a bit of training.

What whispers one hears when paranoid. Where even a silent ~sprouse~ under one’s breath can become bullhorn. Look, HARK, the triumvirate of “let-me-see-your-managers” delegating their matriarch. Who is brash enough to sneak a photo? Ahhh yes, ‘twas the paisley Prius driver on the left. Your colleagues turned their faces in shame, but you? No. Not you. You went boldly where so many of your kind have gone before- right to the person of authority. But this time there is no discount on a pair of shape-ups for you my dear, just internet notoriety.

An advanced technique betrayed by an amateur mistake. There are times when you feel like the antagonist and times when you feel like a character in the background. And while I’m sure I could sit here and write to you of the bubbling fury I felt deep in my man womb, how much easier it is to simply liken my emotional state to the woman behind our fair human heatlamp: the fog of war stare, arms folded in resignation. I’m actually impressed with the phone call technique, nothing new to me -a cynical master of the paranoid arts, but nonetheless advanced. A shame the tact was shattered by an automatic flash feature, burning deep into my soulless eyes the image of a fallen man on the precipice of the void we call ~social media currency~ #ad #cameraduels

Couple shoutouts real quick hold up: (1) Shoutout to TSA precheck not approving me yet. (2) Shoutout to this Italian mamma mia who scared off her helpless children with secondhand embarrassment for the sake of social media points. She too is a fan of jack e codjee it seems, must have missed her quivering youths calling out "Jaghed" in the old "cock-n-balls-screening" machine. It's all audiences now folks. Nonetheless, she's about to get me on that no fly list in the Newark airport, which, is a crying shame cause Newark has always been the basement stepchild of the far superior JFK international. Eyes and ears people, #cameraduels can strike anytime and anywhere, even in high security lanes.

My father once told me that the key to great driving was ensuring the safety of myself and my passengers. Now, behold the fatherless fanatics: car in motion, eyes and hands off the wheel and road. There are times when I am truly in awe of the bravery of human sacrifice. A soldier risks all to save a fallen comrade. A group of righteous protestors fight oppression within a fascist regime. An old woman with dementia walks across a 4 way intersection to the local grocery. THIS, is not one of those times. In fact, a picture of ~a sprouse~ driving a car is so low down the life and limb foodchain, I am almost honored by the attempt. But I digress. You may be asking yourself, "Cole, aren't you taking a picture while driving too?" Yes, yes I certainly am. And typing this caption too. And while I was stopped when I took this, even if I was in motion I had already resigned my existence to another plane. If they play for keeps, so do I. The screaming and giggling that echoed from their car was a grim prologue to an ~auto~biography I should be writing: "I killed two people who probably shouldn't breed anyway," (working title), or at least the opening sequence to "red asphalt 2." Now if they did, indeed, collide with Darwin (because of me) I would have felt a tad guilty, I admit. But to be fair Oprah made us take a pledge for this exact reason, and so I think she should probably feel more ashamed. I hope Satan likes the photo.