Your old rattle trap sputtered, coughed and died on the hottest day of the year in the middle of nowhere. It was another ten miles to the nearest town and any kind of help.
You pulled out your phone. Figures. Following Waze's misdirections since you left the asshole this morning has drained its juices to the last 12 per cent. No signal either, the old trees scratching the sky that lined the cracked and bumpy blacktop blocked any and all signals from the nearest cell towers.
You groaned, and smacked your head against the cheap vinyl cover of your steering wheel again and again. The day has been nothing but the best examples of how Murphy's Law leisurely trips you and kicks you in the teeth while you're sprawled on the ground.
You rolled up the window, blocking out the desultory hot breeze. You
stuff your dying phone, the water bottle with two or three sips of warm,
metallic tasting water from the park water cooler you passed by this
morning, and wallet into your knapsack. The car door opened with a
protesting whine and you slammed it shut, muttering imprecations under
your breath. You shoulder the knapsack and walked in the direction you
were heading, not bothering to lock your dead and unlamented rust
bucket.
An hour had passed, sweat left unsightly patches on your clothes. The last gulp from the water bottle barely made a dent in the dry cotton lining your mouth and throat. Your legs, long accustomed to your sedentary gamer lifestyle, protested against the abuse of hauling your bulk for the past 2 miles, threatening cramps on 4 separate locations. Thankfully your battered Nikes were well broken in and comfortable, though your slouchy socks have begun to feel like a cum rag after a long, dry weekend.
You saw the sign for a bus stop ahead and your heart leapt with joy. You hitch up your knapsack more securely and trudged on. There was a slight dip in the road ahead.
Then you saw the bench that served as the bus stop and the fellow passenger waiting. Your feet refused to take another step. Was it the eerie smile on the perfectly caked makeup unaffected by the sweltering heat? The black balloons clutched in his hand?
The free hand not holding the balloons patted the bench as if saying "Come take a seat."
On its own volition, your tired feet began to move.
An hour had passed, sweat left unsightly patches on your clothes. The last gulp from the water bottle barely made a dent in the dry cotton lining your mouth and throat. Your legs, long accustomed to your sedentary gamer lifestyle, protested against the abuse of hauling your bulk for the past 2 miles, threatening cramps on 4 separate locations. Thankfully your battered Nikes were well broken in and comfortable, though your slouchy socks have begun to feel like a cum rag after a long, dry weekend.
You saw the sign for a bus stop ahead and your heart leapt with joy. You hitch up your knapsack more securely and trudged on. There was a slight dip in the road ahead.
Then you saw the bench that served as the bus stop and the fellow passenger waiting. Your feet refused to take another step. Was it the eerie smile on the perfectly caked makeup unaffected by the sweltering heat? The black balloons clutched in his hand?
The free hand not holding the balloons patted the bench as if saying "Come take a seat."
On its own volition, your tired feet began to move.
