World Class

I don't remember actually exchanging more than four or at five at max words at a time with Fashionable Male, and these decasyllabic convos of ours tally up to something like half a dozen over the past three years. And yet we've had an intricate, complex realtionship with each other in this time that has developed without direct interaction or even exchanging meaningful glances. It's been carried out almost entirely by vibes alone, generated at each other across the bar, using shit-talking to our friends as our vibes-amplifier. It started out as simple contempt, mine for his his painful fashion victimhood and bad hairstyles, his (I'm only guessing here. Vibes carry a rich, layered information stream, but little of it is concrete) for my cultivated languishing-poet vibe and bad hairstyles. I assume he's talked a lot of shit about me. I have about him.
There's one small group of friends that I have that was born from almost entirely from mutually talking shit about him, and when he's not around our conversations are decidedly less animated, more small-talky. The passion just isn't there.
But our bond as enemies has mellowed and matured in the smokehouse we call the bar. We are comfortable with it. I'ts familiar. A couple of weeks ago I was doing drive-bys on different hipster bars, fliering for an upcoming dance party. Fashionable Male was at a fashionable bar, seated in a booth with a couple of my friends. I gave my friends fliers, paused, and set one in front of Fashionable Male. He looked down at it, picked it up, held it in front of his face for a second, then placed it back in the same spot on the table he had picked it up from. But face down. I can tell you, with every bit of drama-club respect I have gained for Fashionable Male, that this man is no ordinary street-level dick. With that one simple move he proved that he is truly worthy of the term World Class Asshole.