In a relative (albeit minor) state of impulsive (work) imposed de(re)pression I began wandering the dark and shady streets of Bolton.
A quest of sorts.
For salted snacks.
I found the snacks.
And feeling particularly karmic at the expense of responsibility, I utilized my chip-change to purchase (multiple) scratch tickets.
Varying brands, prices and payouts.
Ten dollars worth.
To end my financial whoas.
A hundredthousand times profit to be certain.
Fuck you Bay Street.
While satisfied with my new (financial and hunger-free) status I thought the moment could benefit from further dramatic effect, I resisted temptation (that is to scratch and win onsite), I tucked the tickets in and amongst the snacks.
I smiled in Korean to the olde woman behind the counter, bundled my jacket, installed the hood in hoodie and stepped mysteriously back into the darkness.
Oh how I imagine now the stories and tales that olde woman would have told her equally olde husband about my mysteriousity that night…but that, sadly, is another story.
As I walked home, through those same and still dark streets of Bolton, several things played through in my mind.
Not what I would do when I won.
Not what I would do with my freedoms from financial oppression.
I knew I thought I was being followed.
Possibly for the Doritos.
Likely for the lotto(s).
Hooligans were to be my best guess.
Probably a few. Too many for most.
All high on Iced Teas.
As any savvy lone dark night walker might do, I cooly and calmly began to demonstrate (to my would-be attackers and a few dog walkers) the mighty myriad of pain that would await them, should they make way for my sack of snacks and riches.
- The bush side kick – a surprise burst of lateral energy that sent many dried leaves tumbling through the cold night air. In this instance I chose to add an exaggerated opposing arm swing. Possibly a grunt. I must say, the resultant and simultaneous cracking of twigs was loud enough to (briefly) startle even the coolest of side-kick-administerers.
- The water bottle stomp – much like the bush kick, the stomp was highly and entirely unanticipated. With text book delivery the subsequent splatter and crunch was a clear demonstration of my stomping power and an indication of my ruthless ill-nature towards litter and water.
- The branch break – a dual purpose display of breaking power. Not only could I (obviously) break a branch but now, that is after the eventual breaking fact, now I had two smaller (but equally dangerous and jagged) branches that could (and would) be used as weapons. I will admit, the particular branch selected was extra largely and required two break attempts…but this provided the additional message that I was quite clearly not the sort to yield if pressed by initial failure.
Once my power was undeniably demonstrated and the hooligans dispersed, I made way for home.
This is what you do when followed.
Lead the would-be’s away from your home to ensure there won’t be retributive attacks by paralyzed survivors or grieving parents, if in fact you are forced to defend yourself.
With a flippant toss of the branches (into the compost bin) and a quick one-two air-punch-kick I was completely satisfied that I would not be followed into my home.
Possibly ever again.
Doors locked and curtains drawn, I quickly set on my task of consuming the Zesty Cheese.
Many of the chips were broken.
I briefly considered returning to the variety store to lodge a stern complaint.
But I didn’t really want to go into the store without purchasing something before I left…and as I had nothing left (left)…I left (left left) it at a harsh thought.
I won the mother fucking lottery.
Three times on one sheet.
Once on the third.
Pow, pow, kerpow!
A flurry of fortune to the solar-plexus.
A newly minted member of the hundredaires club.
I’m buying groceries.
And a flashlight.
With big ass D batteries.
To bop people on the head with.