My shoes are Red

“My shoes are red, because they are soaked in the blood of my enemies” — Selfish Philip, January 30, 2017

This picture was the first time I decided to come into the light of Social Media. It’s funny, the cause of the mass-spread obsessive disorder over likes and shares bled to my side, yet I advocated against it for so long. What was initially a dis on people posting completely random things, as ones feet, slowly turned into a development of an Internet persona. Hence, Selfish Philip was born. And if you look through the superficial causticity of posting photos of my feet, all of them have a story to tell. Some big, some small. Just like this one, the first story of Selfish. I present My Shoes Are Red.

Cue a lowly book shop. Well, more of a hipster looking coffee place where one can escape the dull reality of living in Los Angeles. Where actuality and truth differ from whats on the other side of the door. Where our favorite characters, like Mr. Hyde, Geralt of Rivia, The Canterville Ghost reside. A place for storytellers alike. 
The shop itself is quite small. It’s no Starbucks, or Peet’s Coffee, where the line of costumers reaches the sidewalk of the building. No, it’s more of a West Hollywood style studio apartment, riddled with books and plays. It’s mostly illuminated by the three large bulbs hanging from the high ceiling. But during the day, the lonely window that overlooks the busy street let’s in the strong glow of the sun. 
There are five tables, all separated by bookcases or shelves stacked with comic books, graphic novels and different kind of magazines. There’s usually about 5 or 7 patrons at a time in the shop, reading the latest issue of Deadpool or trying to solve the new Dan Brown mystery, while loudly sipping on their medium sized Latte. And in the upper right corner of the shop, wedged between two large shelves, sits Selfish, puckered down all by himself. Headphones in, mobile out, he listens to his Spotify playlist as he scrolls through an Instagram feed.
‘Philip?’, yells out the Barista, as she puts down an iced drink on the coffee stained bar. Selfish looks around, as if startled, and walks over to grab his drink. 
He sits back down into his corner of solitude, turns on his phone and isolates himself from the rest of the shop. He takes a big swig from his icy drink and puts the earphones back in. As the song from his playlist changes, Selfish closes his eyes and leans back into the wall. 
He awakens, standing amidst an arena, surrounded by the screams and wails from an audience sitting in the tribunes. It’s 200 AD in Ancient Rome, and Selfish finds himself stranded inside the oval plain of a large Amphitheater. Sword in his one hand and shield in the other.
In front of him are fights only recorder by the writings of history: Flamma, Spartacus, Commodus and all the warriors shedding blood upon the blazing sand. As a pool of the viscous red ichor spreads across the arena, Selfish looks down on his sandals, covered in scarlet. Suddenly, a sharp blade pierces though Selfish’s abdomen. He falls down, uniting with the corpses of his enemies.
His eyes open. He jerks up from the wall. Selfish wakes back up in the hipster coffee/book shop. The drink is half empty and Hans Zimmer’s latest epic blasts through his earphones. He takes a deep breath as he finishes his pseudo-coffee beverage and looks down at his feet. His red shoes glow in the fluorescent light from the bulbs hanging above. ‘Maybe I should?’, he thinks to himself. ‘It would be funny’. 
He takes out his phone and snaps a quick photo of his feet. The Instagram app opens. He reluctantly clicks on the
ADD PHOTO button and uploads the picture of the red shoes. “My shoes are red, because they are soaked in the blood of my enemies”, he types in the caption bar, quietly snickering to himself.
The captions are written, the hashtags have been added, now it’s time to click the ever-so-dreaded publish button and be a part of the social media circle. He takes a moment and looks around. A faint smile. Click.”

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