"Excuse me sir, but I believe this is your hat."
The addressee had his back turned to Gary, holder of the hat. From what Gary could see, the owner was an inch or two over six feet, an ounce or two over two hundred pounds, and a year or two over a half-century. He was wearing a dark gray trenchcoat that seemed just a smidgen too small and didn't impede the view of the lower parts of two faded pant legs and two old gray shoes that were well past their prime. His hair was also gray, nearly the same tone as his trenchcoat. Once the owner turned around to face Gary, he could see that even this man's skin had a sort of gray tinge to it, almost as though it were made of unfired clay. His face was utterly colorless; tired gray eyes--the sort that can't be called blue or even pale blue no matter how hard you try--and dead gray lips, cheeks, even his teeth were probably gray. This man may have been a mannequin for all Gary knew, but for the fact that he seemed to be saying something. "That's not my hat."
His teeth were indeed gray. It took Gary a moment to compute what this man had just said to him because of the distraction, and after a moment he felt significantly pissed off. What does he mean this isn't his hat? After having to look at this lifeless blob of nothing for an eternity, it is all for naught? The blandness that this fellow exuded from his form was nearly unbearable--his voice sounded gray. As though all of this weren't bad enough, the man's dead face was now staring at him as though he were some sort of crackpot, even while he destroys all life about him with his every breath, wilting innocent plants and harming the very souls of all passersby. On top of it all, this man's primary adjective, gray, is Gary's name with the middle two letters reversed; it was like a direct affront on his nature especially. And now this sick bastard has the audacity to look like he's being interrupted and offended! That he's the one suffering!
That's enough. Gary couldn't take anymore. And he did humanity a service by reddening the gray man's face a little bit, punching kicking and biting like he never knew he could.
Gary is now serving time for second degree murder. Twenty-five to life. I'm starting a petition to have his sentence commuted to two years' probation for grossly vandalizing public property (he used the library they were standing outside of as a wrestler would use his tag-team partner). Gary is a hero to all of us, a symbol of the American Dream, and an fine example for all to follow.
You may use the comments box below to sign the petition, which reads:
It is my belief that Gary committed no crime of murder and I solemnly request that we free Gary, much as Willy before him was freed, and that we give him a parade to honor the valiant actions that he took on behalf of all of us. Oh, and hasta la byebye. Can't forget that.
The addressee had his back turned to Gary, holder of the hat. From what Gary could see, the owner was an inch or two over six feet, an ounce or two over two hundred pounds, and a year or two over a half-century. He was wearing a dark gray trenchcoat that seemed just a smidgen too small and didn't impede the view of the lower parts of two faded pant legs and two old gray shoes that were well past their prime. His hair was also gray, nearly the same tone as his trenchcoat. Once the owner turned around to face Gary, he could see that even this man's skin had a sort of gray tinge to it, almost as though it were made of unfired clay. His face was utterly colorless; tired gray eyes--the sort that can't be called blue or even pale blue no matter how hard you try--and dead gray lips, cheeks, even his teeth were probably gray. This man may have been a mannequin for all Gary knew, but for the fact that he seemed to be saying something. "That's not my hat."
His teeth were indeed gray. It took Gary a moment to compute what this man had just said to him because of the distraction, and after a moment he felt significantly pissed off. What does he mean this isn't his hat? After having to look at this lifeless blob of nothing for an eternity, it is all for naught? The blandness that this fellow exuded from his form was nearly unbearable--his voice sounded gray. As though all of this weren't bad enough, the man's dead face was now staring at him as though he were some sort of crackpot, even while he destroys all life about him with his every breath, wilting innocent plants and harming the very souls of all passersby. On top of it all, this man's primary adjective, gray, is Gary's name with the middle two letters reversed; it was like a direct affront on his nature especially. And now this sick bastard has the audacity to look like he's being interrupted and offended! That he's the one suffering!
That's enough. Gary couldn't take anymore. And he did humanity a service by reddening the gray man's face a little bit, punching kicking and biting like he never knew he could.
Gary is now serving time for second degree murder. Twenty-five to life. I'm starting a petition to have his sentence commuted to two years' probation for grossly vandalizing public property (he used the library they were standing outside of as a wrestler would use his tag-team partner). Gary is a hero to all of us, a symbol of the American Dream, and an fine example for all to follow.
You may use the comments box below to sign the petition, which reads:
It is my belief that Gary committed no crime of murder and I solemnly request that we free Gary, much as Willy before him was freed, and that we give him a parade to honor the valiant actions that he took on behalf of all of us. Oh, and hasta la byebye. Can't forget that.
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