They’d iced Kramer out at the seminar. A relentless fog of equivocation had snuck into the conference room and refused to dissipate. It hung perfectly level with wherever in the gut it is an investor decides to ethically engage himself. He looked up from the unfolding device to case his audience. “I’m sensing a great disdain. My pitch will continue,” said Kramer.
Later on the showroom floor they all walked away from him. Via the hard way, Kramer found there was no harmony or relatable counterpoint native to “no thank you” apparent within “that’s how people die, you idiot.” A problem of technique, perhaps of language. “So, consanguinity with all problems, at least,” thought Kramer, out loud.
Kramer vaulted up the stairs by twos. Jerry’s apartment grew closer, as if he were reeling it in hand over hand. No level of commitment to the ideals of masculine beauty was unwelcome past that particular mezuzah.
"We’ve been walking out into the desert for 11 years. I turned around and I was a thousand miles away from you," said Jerry.
"Living like this makes me think I’ll never get better," said Elaine. "When I move to kiss you, I’m overcome with so many objections to your lips."
Kramer burst in.
"Makeup that gets you high! For men!" said Kramer, effortlessly outflanking Elaine and Jerry’s fusillade of intimate discomfort.
"For men," said Kramer, again.
"It’s all he can say," said Jerry, falling both short of apprehending the pitch and extremely short of persuading Elaine to stay.
"You two debase everything you love," she said without looking back, and shut the door.
"Depend upon it!" Kramer hollered in triumph.
Eighteen years later Kramer sat counting his money. The spark of his enlightenment had long since set the community ablaze. Flames of brutality and desire licked the corners of everyone’s vision.
"Ten thousand dollars!" said Kramer, finally satisfied.