The man who cried gasoline was useless as a fuel source. Lining up his tear ducts to the fuel cap of a car was difficult in itself. He only produced pitiful amounts of gasoline, not enough to run a car – a lawnmower at best – and even then he'd need to be manipulated into experiencing a sadness of enough severity to warrant tears. Difficult, as he was quite a stoic man and did not like to show emotions in public.
He could not smoke a cigarette, for obvious reasons.
He suffered from a rare form of eczema around his eyes and cheeks, due to his skin being irritated by corrosive liquids over long periods of time.
The man was uniquely attractive to men and women who enjoyed the scent of petrol. They stopped him in the street, transfixed, but he was reluctant to give out his phone number. He preferred to spend his time alone, to escape the constant worry that someone might light a cigarette near his face before he had time to warn them.
He secured a job at fish-gutting facility, to disguise his unique scent. It worked well, and on a good day he would manage to go without speaking to another living soul, or even coming within five metres of anyone.
He refused to use a gas cooker if it could be avoided, and ate most of his food raw. This included a lot of raw fish, which he got cheap—or stole—from work. He did not like to chop onions, either, preferring to prevent himself spilling gasoline tears in the kitchen.
The man mostly watched happy movies, but did not enjoy them. However, he had been brave enough to watch the Pixar film Up—at home, not the cinema—but held a plastic bucket in front of him for the duration. He sometimes sold the gasoline harvested from his eyes, and the amount he made from Up paid not just for the DVD but also some expensive sushi ingredients – seaweed-paper and soy sauce. That month he watched the movie over and over.
But before long he was in a deep depression and nauseous from all the sushi. After vomiting fish for the third time in a single night, he snapped the DVD in half. This made him feel worse.
The man who cried gasoline did not love his life but did his best to tolerate it – and tolerate it as joyfully as possible. The less he wept, the better. To this end, he tried a number of different hobbies. Acting didn't work. Neither did boxing. Online journalism, however, proved surprisingly helpful. He wrote a series of scathing reviews of restaurants he'd never been to, and to which he'd never go.
For the most part, he never cried again.