The Impossible World of Easton Mcclaire

Long term investments

Bummerland by Ajr^^^ (love this songggg)🤪

Easton's POV

You know what they say, Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Waking up early, combined with a protein-filled hearty breakfast of a cold glass of whiskey, ensures that whatever problems you might face at work, you can handle. My job is important to me. My job is not just a job; it's a place where I want to do my best every day. So I put my best foot forward! If I'm feeling extra thorough, I'll scarf down an overripe banana or a soft tangerine. 

I'm Easton Mcclaire. The last name is Scottish, I think. Although, to be honest, I only assumed I'm Scottish. My relationship with whisky is way too close for me not to be Scottish. Anyways, I didn't lie when I said my job is important to me—not that you'd notice when I was lying—It is. And I thrive at it. It's the only thing I'm good at. Nothing else comes more naturally to me than my job.

I first started working when I was just the ripe age of 12. I was impressionable and young at that age; you soak up knowledge like a dry sponge. I started with just random pick-pocketing. I was abnormally short for my age, and my obese body only made me look more innocent. It didn't take much effort on my part. I concluded that either I was a genius at stealing or everyone around me was just stupid. It was a bit of both. I wish I could say I started stealing because of my screwed-up parents or some sob story, but sadly, I don't have a valid villain story to feed you. I simply thrive off the adrenaline rush.

I grew on the east side of the Bronx, closer to Melrose. My mom and dad weren't around, and my grandmother hardly had enough social security to buy food for herself, so I stepped up and did what I could. By "stepped up," I mean I stole watches, random bills, key chains, and coins; I used all the money to buy honey buns and pecan rolls at the corner store. I stayed out all day and all night sticking my greedy sticky fingers in big fleece trench coats worn by stockbrokers on their way to work. I learned the hard way that businessmen and women don't carry around nearly enough cash. Times were evolving; cash wasn't needed as much anymore. Big businessmen and women had metal credit cards and elaborate wallets and apps. So I decided to expand my knowledge.

By the time I was 15, I had learned how to code. Coding was the boring part and the easiest part. I read coding books instead of doing my English essays, and I watched videos on how to code programs instead of playing Call of Duty like the rest of my classmates. Hacking was the more exciting part. But, of course, coding and hacking require a computer, and a good one at that, so I did have to submit myself to societal norms and find myself a job. It was the only job I'd ever have. Working for a fat-rich white guy in a boujee coffee shop was more repulsive than the extra shot espresso cups people buy. They taste like shit. I worked 40 hours a week on top of school and procrastinating homework; I finally had enough to buy my first desktop. Naturally, my grandma asked me why I needed something so gaudy just for schoolwork. Luckily, she's as old as a ww2 tank, so I chalked it up to technology evolving.

I started out hacking simple websites such as my school's. I didn't do anything too explicit, but I did post a picture of Kevin Barnett's ass on the homepage after finding out his favorite pastime was sharing unsolicited nudes of the girl's softball team. Then I moved on to more broad places, like random celebrity Instagram pages, Twitter accounts....my English teacher's Facebook page. Now you might be thinking, Have I ever been caught? And the answer is yes. I have. Many times. However, that's how I learned the second most important thing about being a con artist—the lying aspect, or rather the manipulation. Lying came a little easier since I am my father's son, but dreaming up excuses and manipulating feelings; was more difficult. So I did what any respectable, hard-working con artist would do; I watched telenovelas. The art of faking emotions and configuring lies was all in telenovelas. Sometimes I threw in a couple of foreign films and emotions for dummies.