Fear and Loathing in Looksmaxxing Hell: Clavicular comes to Binghamton

We were somewhere around Court Street, on the edge of the Susquehanna, when the drugs began to take hold. Our duo consisted of myself, a student of journalism and writer for the Beta Beta Beta fraternity newsletter, and my associate, the owner of the chrome 2024 Tesla Cybertruck that was currently rocketing towards the Rathskeller. In our trunk we had two bags of sativa, three sheets of acid, a ziploc bag half-full of cocaine, a case of beer, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a sandwich bag of crystal meth, a few boxes of ozempic, and about two or three dozen contractor-grade ball-peen hammers. Not that we needed all that for the evening, but once you get an exclusive interview with Clavicular, the tendency is to overprepare.

My associate parked the cybertruck illegally outside the Rathskeller, making sure to take up two or three parking spaces as he did so, and then we entered the basement. I got past the bouncer with my fake ID, an index card I had scrawled “21” on in red crayon before leaving, and then we set about finding our subject. It was imperative that we find him before the acid truly began to set in, or I would be unable to tell him from any of the dozens of low-T beta males that filled the bar. Luckily, I found him easily, effortlessly mogging everyone else in the room with his chiseled jawline and ankle monitor.

He was preparing for his speech, laying out various brands of hammers and preparing a pipe of crystal. I showed him my press credentials, also in crayon, and then showed him the drugs and hammers that my associate and I had brought. I made sure to impress upon him that these were no cheapo, run of the mill claw or framing hammers, but top of the line ball-peen hammers bought from the pro desk at Home Depot, with steel heads and real wooden handles, in a selection of sizes. I had spent a significant portion of Beta Beta Beta’s jungle juice budget on them, and recouping that investment was no easy feat ever since the university had suspended us for hazing and sexual assault. Clavicular was very impressed with both our stash of drugs and the volume and scale of our rape allegations, and did a few shots of straight rum with us, because drinks that taste good are for women and gays. He ruthlessly mogged us the whole time, though I was so deep into the drugs by that point that I didn’t care.

“So, Clavicular,” I asked, snorting a line of coke off my associate’s chest in a 100% heterosexual way, “you’ve traveled to an awful lot of countries explicitly because, even after literally mutilating yourself and becoming infertile through the sheer amount of drugs you put into your body, you still can’t actually get women in America to sleep with you, and thought that everyone else’s standards would somehow be lower. How’s that going?”

He then probably proceeded to mog me with his doubtlessly witty and scathing response to this question, though I can’t actually remember what it was through the noise of the bar and the fog of the drugs. Whatever it was, my associate agreed with it profusely, and then explained to us in great detail how feminists, Jews, and gay people were responsible for his own lack of sexual success. Clavicular sympathized with my associate, then asked if my associate had tried looksmaxxing. My associate replied that he had, and Clavicular suggested that if that hadn’t worked, then he could try drugging underage women, which had worked well for him in the past. He even offered my associate his own personal concoction of anabolic steroids, Percocets, cement mix, ketamine, muscle relaxants, methamphetamine, and a mystery drug he referred to as the “clavicle special” that apparently the FDA has never even heard of. This was apparently to be injected directly into someone’s face, something I developed slight reservations about after seeing a few spilled drops of it dissolve a small section of the flooring.

Clavicular then began his speech, and my associate and I settled down in the back of the bar to knock back some of Binghamton’s finest warm beers and absorb all the relationship advice we could from a man who had possibly never had consensual sex in his life and became famous for regularly mutilating himself online. When he had finished, I tried to approach him again, but he had, shortly after leaving the stage, confused his supply of meth for the drug he offered my associate, and was at that moment convulsing on the floor of the Rathskeller, muttering something or other about Nick Fuentes. Seeing that the situation was quickly deteriorating, my associate and I made it our mission to get the hell out of there, and fled the scene immediately as the sound of police sirens approached.

As we drove the cybertruck back to the Beta Beta Beta house, blowing through stop signs, red lights, a few fire hydrants, and two pedestrians, I found myself turning the speech over in my head. My associate offered me a beer and I took two, chugging one and throwing the other at a homeless man’s head as we sped past. I just couldn’t make sense of what had happened that night. What had happened? Who had mogged who? In the drug-crazed stupor I couldn’t tell who was the mogger, and who was the moggee. Was I a beta or an alpha? A chad or a cuck? These crazy thoughts swirled in my muddled head. In the end, nothing about that night made sense, but I suppose that’s just what happens when Clavicular comes to town.