Ah, the sweet monotony of a mild, sunny afternoon. The kind of day where the world seems almost too perfect, too peaceful.
Naturally, that’s when the universe decides to hit “shuffle” on its playlist of absurdity. And so it was, as I eased my noble steed to a halt at the pedestrian crossing near the town hall. Someone had pressed the button, halting my progress. Thoughtful, wasn’t it? Yes, truly, humanity’s selfless acts know no bounds. But I digress.
My attention was soon drawn to a figure, let’s call him The Man in Question, whose presence screamed, “I bring disruption wherever I tread.” He wasn’t just crossing the street; no, that would be too pedestrian, wouldn’t it? Instead, he launched himself into a live-action game of Frogger, weaving through traffic with all the grace of a wrecking ball at a ballroom. His trajectory? A park bench just ahead, where an unsuspecting couple sat wrapped in the tender cocoon of their own oblivion.
The couple, oh, what a pair. She, a rough-around-the-edges blonde with a voice that could strip paint. He, the quiet, unassuming sort who looked like he was born to be blindsided. They were the kind of duo who made you wonder if love truly was blind, or just dangerously myopic.
The Man in Question zeroed in on them like a heat-seeking missile. His dishevelled attire flapped in the breeze, an avant-garde blend of stains and frays that could’ve walked straight out of a dystopian fashion show. And then, he arrived. No introductions, no warm-ups, just a sudden, explosive headbutt.
The sound, oh, the sound. It wasn’t just a collision of skull and face; it was the physical embodiment of you’ve just been screwed. The quiet chap crumpled to the ground with all the dignity of a sack of potatoes meeting gravity for the first time. Meanwhile, his companion erupted into a symphony of shrieks that could’ve summoned the dead, or at least scared them back into their graves.
But the pièce de résistance? The Man in Question casually rifled through the blonde’s belongings, as though he were selecting an item from a buffet of poor life choices. He plucked his prize, a phone, a wallet, a dream unfulfilled? Who knows, and made his exit with the kind of swagger only a man shouting “profanity” could muster.
The victim on the pavement staggered to his feet, wobbling like a drunk marionette, while the blonde’s cries reached a crescendo. Around them, a small crowd gathered, their expressions a delightful cocktail of horror and intrigue. It was a theatre of chaos, and everyone had a front-row seat.
But me? My light turned green, and I drove away, leaving the scene behind like the closing credits of a film I didn’t ask to watch. As the chaos faded in my rear-view mirror, a question lingered in my mind, gnawing at my sanity like a dog on a bone: Did I just witness a moment of raw, unfiltered humanity, or a glitch in reality’s simulation?
Either way, I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. Life, it seems, has a wicked sense of humour. And on days like this, I am but a bemused spectator in its twisted little theatre.
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