French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre had a few words to say about the meaning of life: don't bother searching for one. The universe doesn't care enough to give itself meaning, preferring a more absurd approach to existence. We can say that the universe is a bit like Florida in that regard.
Sartre also said that, thanks to this lack of inherent meaning to existence, humans will always live in anguish and despair. He said this in part thanks to his belief that, as the universe refuses to give our life meaning, we have a duty to make meaning for ourselves. Another popular theory is that he said all those angsty things because he was never invited to any kind of cool party. Sartre was kind of a bummer.
Humans, he once wrote, were condemned to be free, as without a superior force giving meaning to their lives, they were left to confront the reality that they had crafted. So no, Greg from accounting, you're not bitchy because Mercury is in retrograde, you're just a dick.
If we are responsible for our actions, and our actions craft the meaning of who we are in life, Sartre proposes that decisions, the catalyst for actions, are the one defining feature of human existence. The decisions a person makes in life becomes our essence.
As so, we can safely say that whoever willingly drinks Clamato juice is someone who had made terrible life choices, is most likely a horrible person, and is not to be trusted in any capacity.
For those lucky enough not to know the scourge of this "beverage," Clamato is a drink made from reconstituted tomato juice concentrate, sugar, several spices, clam broth, and MSG. It is known through the universe as the worst drink someone can willingly drink. Even worse than Surströmming juice, and even fouler that the acidic fart waters of the planet Campela 7.
It was invented at a bar in Baja California, thanks to a man named Rene Vazques Pesqueira, who, after a night of drinks, had the mother of all hangover drilling at his head and decided that combining clam broth and tomato juice was a perfect way to end his misery, thus creating Clamato juice.
Legend has it that, after just one sip, Rene became aware of the absurdity of his own existence, and swore not to drink alcohol again if the alternative was to drink his awful cocktail once again.
Even though it remains one of the foulest drinks in existence, it somehow retains solid sales profits, and only a few people know why.
You see, Clamato has a peculiar consistency, being sticky but perfectly liquid at the same time. It also contains some necessary proteins for sustaining Carbon-based life for a few days if necessary. It is a near perfect replacement for blood.
Hence, if one were to witness an ominous red liquid seeping from under the door of a certain suicide union headquarters, one would initially assume it was blood. Someone with more worldly wisdom would immediately know it was, in fact, a spilled bottle of Clamato juice. The why of that is less obvious.
The door opened with a creak, and a head peered from the darkness inside. It was a rather ugly head, one that made you not want to know what the body looked like.
"Yes?" the head said in a voice best described as one of utter defeat.
"Hello Margot," said James Truman-Conelly with cheer. "Can we come in?"
The crone looked at the pair from top to bottom, pausing to see Peter straight in the eyes.
What Peter saw inside those eyes terrified him to his very core. Countless horrors swirled in those dead irises. There was something else in her. Something sinister.
"James Truman-Conelly," she said with dreadful gravitas. "Please, enter. I'm sorry about the mess I made. My hands are not what they used to be."
It was an understatement, thought Peter, as she had hooks for hands.
The first thing you noticed when entering the offices of the Association of Suicidal Workers is the smell. A rank, oppressive smell of sweat and pain that you could almost taste.
Boxes of Clamato juice were stacked against the farthest wall of the room, threatening to collapse at any moment, which is something a man was hoping for as he laid at the base of the rickety arrangement with a smile on his face. Sadly for him, the boxes stood unmoving.
"What can I do for you, James?" said Margot as she sat on her desk. Plastered behind her was a poster of a kitten hanging from a branch, with a crudely drawn noose around its neck that read "Hang in there!"
"I have a new client for you," he answered.
"What a sweetheart," said Margot in a deadpanned tone. "I'll make sure you get your finder's fee. And who might you be?"
"Peter Katz, the pleasure is yours," said Peter dismissively.
"I'm sure it is. Let me guess...cancer?" said Margot.
Peter was taken aback by the accurate guess. "How did you-"
"In my line of work," she interrupted, "one has to have a clinical eye. What kind of cancer?"
"Colon," said Peter.
"It's a sad, sad world we live in. My Alfred died of colon cancer, too."
"My deepest condolences," said James Truman-Conelly. "Was he your husband?"
"He was my imaginary friend when I was in college," said Margot. "Acid was fun."
And then Peter realized, it wasn't something sinister he saw in her eyes. She was not quite there to begin with.
"Is Michael busy?" asked James Truman-Conelly, pointing at a door just to the left of Margot's desk.
"He's in a meeting right now, but please, take a seat and I'll let you know if he can take you in."
Michael Di Martino was the chairman of the ASW, and as most union leaders, he was terribly corrupt. He used force, intimidation, and other less than approved practices to make the ASW be the number one suicide-related union on the East coast.
He was also famously stingy, using every opportunity to make a buck.
"I gotta ask," said Peter, "what's with the Clamato?"
"Well, Michael, the chairman, realized that membership fees weren't turning the profit that they should," said James Truman-Conelly.
"Not many suicidal workers, eh?"
"No, it's not that. It's just...they don't tend to stay here very long," said James Truman-Conelly, whispering into Peter's ear with his moist, chicken-nugget breath.
Peter automatically reeled back. "It's because of the smell, isn't it? Smells like someone died in here."
"People die here all the time, Peter. That's kinda the point," said James Truman-Conelly, grabbing Peter by the back of the neck and pulling him closer. "You get in, pay a couple of fees, and then you're gone."
"Why are you pulling me closer to you? I ain't swinging that way. At least not sober."
James Truman-Conelly looked from left to right, making sure no one was around to hear him. Margot was busy trying to fill a crossword with a ball pen, a task made significantly harder thanks to her claw hands.
"What I'm about to tell you," said James Truman-Conelly as he placed his lips as close to Peter's ear without actually touching it, "cannot leave this room."
"This is the world's worst ASMR experience I've ever had," commented Peter.
"I gotta be careful," whispered James Truman-Conelly. "See, the way ASW makes a profit is that, two or three days before the worker is set to kick the bucket, they give them a blood transfusion. As in, they switch every drop of their blood with Clamato."
Peter was shocked, mainly because he thought it was an ingenious plan and chastised himself for not thinking of it himself. "Who do they sell the blood to?"
"Oh, there's a bunch of people," whispered James Truman-Conelly. "Satanist, vampires, the DMV."
Peter wanted to ask why the DMV would need blood for, but remained silent. Sometimes, there are questions that should remain unanswered.
A sudden knock broke their concentration.
"James," said Margot, "could you please open the door, dear?"
"Sure," said James Truman-Conelly. After a few seconds, he returned with a rather bizarre-looking person behind him. There's really not a gentle way to say it: the man was a gimp.
"Excuse me," said the gimp, "am I late for the asphyxiation seminar?"
"Auto-erotic or regular?" asked Margot without moving her vision from the crossword in front of her. 3 letter word, feline, predator, common. She had been stumped for the last few hours.
"Auto-erotic," said the gimp through a zipper on his mask.
"That's in the Association of Sadomasochist Wimps, fourth floor," answered Margot.
The gimp bowed in thanks and left the room in a hurry.
"Alright," said Peter, "run me through this thing. Do I get like a starter kit? A couple cyanide pills and a noose?"
"It's more mundane than that," said James Truman-Conelly. "We're gonna take a look at your case, look at your options, and give you some alternatives."
"Like..."
"Like," said James Truman-Conelly, "for example, your will. Who're you gonna leave your money to?"
"Mr. Trash, my cat," said Peter without hesitation.
"Cat!" said Margot with all the joy someone without a will to live could muster as she filled that three letter word.
Another knock on the door reverberated through the room, making the man laying at the foot of the Clamato mountain extra happy, as he could've swore he saw a box move by an inch. Sadly, the boxes stood still, mocking him.
"I'll get it," said James Truman-Conelly.
This time, nobody came in. James Truman-Conelly yelled from the front door. "Margot! When's the Starving master class?"
"That's on the Association of Socialist Women, dear! Second floor!" yelled Margot.
Whoever was at the door left in a hurry, and James Truman-Conelly took his place back at Peter's side, which made Peter stand up in turn. He had enough.
"Look, it's been great," lied Peter, "with the Clamato and the whatnot. But I'm wasting my time here. And I think you might remember that my time is pretty fucking limited."
"Oh dear!" said Margot, "please don't go. Would you like some coffee? It has a special ingredient."
"It's arsenic," whispered James Truman-Conelly. "Small batch, very artisanal."
"I'll pass, thanks."
"Let me see if Mr. Di Martino is free to receive you," said Margot as she scuttled towards the Chairman's door.
Margot opened the door wide open, an opportunity Peter used to see the man behind that whole macabre operation.
Peter expected him to be more impressive than that, but as a general fact, people tend to look less intimidating when hanging from the ceiling with a noose around his neck.
"The Chairman is still on his meeting, could you please come back tomorrow?" said Margot, completely wall-eyed.
Peter realized the puzzle she supposedly completing was actually an Arby's menu.