For those of you who may not know, Cameron (otherwise known as iGSM) and I have been sparring for quite some time now. Up until recently, I was wondering why iGSM and I had been fighting, and it was when a pint of lager triggered my memory.
Suddenly, I remembered why we were fighting! Then I insantly wanted to forget, so I drank seven more pints of lager, a black and tan, innumerable shots of tequila, then did a few lines of blow. In my state, I went to the computer to write down our story, as I knew it was rather interesting, and I was appalled to read what I had written the next morning:
Frustrated, but hardly deterred, I poured another pint of lager and sipped carefully at it, and it all came flooding back to me. When I'd finished my lager, making sure not to fall into the same habit as the night before, I sat back down at my computer, deleted everything I'd written prior, and started fresh.
It was a cool autumn day, at least for those of us in the northern hemisphere. I happened to be walking very wearily down the street, but my brim was not pulled way down low, when I noticed a dark figure in the doorway of an old, dilapidated tenement - a stone's throw away from the even older, even more dilapidated tenement in which I resided.
"You." The figure addressed me with a strong accent, and I wasn't sure if he was mentally handicapped or deaf. I found out later that he was actually Australian, but nevermind that. I turned to him and dropped the bag of groceries I had been carrying, as he stood before me with his trench coat wide open, and very little else to show.
It was then that I looked down at the groceries I'd dropped and realized my Mama Pesto's spaghetti sauce, which was imported straight from Sicily and cost nearly $45 a jar, had cracked and all the delicious, homecooked sauce was leaking over the sidewalk.
"Bastard!" I cried, then lunged at the mysterious fellow, screaming that he owed me forty-five AMERICAN dollars, not that freaky currency they use down in Oz. He threw four metallic pins at me, which landed square in my face - one in my nose, two in my forehead, and the fourth slicing off my ear - and I fell to the ground, writhing in pain. He then bent over, laughed at me, and shouted, "IT FINALLY HAPPENED!" as he ran off into the Philadelphia skyline, laughing maniacally and crying, "Oh dear!"
Of course, he'd stepped on my hand as lay on the ground, but when I regained my composure, I pulled the four pins out of my head delicately, and, noticing he'd stolen my ear AND my Mama Pesto's spaghetti sauce, screamed to the skies and swore revenge on the bastard. I looked at the pins, and held them in my hand. I then read them aloud to a disinterested pigeon, who was more interested in pecking at my wound than what I was saying:
My eye twitched involuntarily. Revenge would be mine; it was only a matter of time.