So Here's Argus. I Took Out The Other Two Chapters And Decided To Keep It A Short Story Because It's Better Off This Way Until I Can Find A Way To Write The Rest Of This. Here We Go.

(Enter).

Argus

I sucked on my ticket to hell slowly as I took in the scenery. Green grass, big leafy trees, cobblestone walkway, miniature picket fences that were suppose to keep kids off the grass, but failed to do their job. “Don’t Step on the Grass, God Damn It!!” was what the big, black bold letters said on the golden yellow sign. No one paid any iota of attention to the sign’s wishes, or commands, whichever one you feel more comfortable with.

I shot smoke out my nostrils and coughed slightly. I’d been smoking since I was six, and didn’t have the will power to quit. And as I sat on that park bench, I remembered the day I had my first cigarette. I was running around, you know, just being a kid, when suddenly I tripped and scraped up my knee pretty badly. I went to my dad, crying with double snot barrels going simultaneously.

“What the fuck you cryin’ for, boy?” he asked, half-heartedly.

“I fell!” I sniffled, showing him my bloody knee.

“Damn it, Argus, you’re bleeding on the carpet! Clean that shit up!”

“But Daddy it hurts!”

He sighed and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You see these?” I nodded, “You see how I smoke ’em, right?” I was a living bobble head, “Do as I do, calm down, and clean up the fucking mess. You need to toughen up and become a man, Argus. You don’t want to take shit from anyone and have ’em walk all over you. Now get, I don't know why I bother stickin’ ’round for you…" and then he went on to rambling about how my mother was a major bitch and the only reason why he still lived with us was because he didn't want my mom to raise me into a “fag”. He was mostly talking to himself, because I left as soon as he began, came back half an hour later, and he was still going.

A year later, my father deemed me a “man” and never returned home.

I returned to present day a told myself how much of a douche bag my asshole of a father was. He never told me smoking was bad, as well as drugs and alcohol. When I learned that my everyday routine of getting high would be the death of me if I didn’t quit, I swore I’d kill my father the next time I saw him. But, in the mean time, I was still addicted.

“My mommy says smoking’s bad for you,” said a small and annoying voice. I turned my head to look at a little boy, about six or seven. He was a little chubby with blonde hair and green eyes.

“Well, tell your mommy that she's a worthless cunt and can get fucked.” I replied. The boy blinked. He had no clue what it was I had just said. I sighed and told him something he could understand, “Your mommy doesn't love you, you were adopted.”

His eyes widened, “What?”

“You heard me, you little fucker.”

Tears filled his eyes as he ran off crying to his mother. I smiled as I watched him trip and fall flat on his face. “Suck it up and be a man, kid.” I said to myself. I got a kick out of scaring kids. I’d thought about why several times. Maybe I was jealous because my childhood was shit, thanks to my douche bag father. Or, maybe I picked on kids because they’re easily manipulated. Or maybe, just maybe, I did it because it was fun.

I was nineteen and an artist. My work was famous, but no one knew what I looked like. That was fine with me, I hated people. I didn't want people to come up to me randomly on the street and be all “O-­M-G! You're Argus Thatcher! I love your work!” and blah, blah, blah, blah, ditty, blah.

Ugh. People make me sick.

I got up and left before the boy’s mother could call the police on my ass. I always fled the scene before I got too much into anything. I was a coward, really, and still am. Another trait I picked up from my asshole father. He was a drug dealer, and I was his customer, that is, until he left. I never got my heroin cheap after that.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I’d eaten nothing for four days. My only source of energy was water from park fountains, cigarettes, and whatever food people were willing to provide me with or whatever was left behind from picnics. I checked my pockets for cash and found a penny with a hole through it, two pieces of hard gum, lent, a paper clip, and four bucks.

“…Fuck, I'm broke.” And as I looked down at the few things in my hand, I couldn’t help but get a glimpse of my dress. Baggy, dark blue, dirty, ripped jeans, a blood-and-sweat-stained, white wife beater, and a mauve purple jacket with the elbows torn. I concluded that I was in major need of a pedicure when I looked down at my feet (God that made me sound like a girl). I was wearing brown, heeled sandals, you know, the kind five year old boys and old men run around in.

No wonder why people feared me.

I’m not too tall, really. I stand at about five feet, maybe a little bit more than that, but not much. My hair is a scarlet color with a large patch of grey on the left side of my head due to too much drugs and alcohol over the years. My eyes are a very vibrant Pacific blue when I’m not stoned or hung-over, which is rarely.

I walked into a grocery store to see what the fuck I could possibly buy for or under four dollars. Nothing’s cheap anymore. I remembered how my mom used to complain about the price of a loaf of bread. When she was a kid, it cost two or three bucks, but now, it was almost ten.

“Well, bread's out of the question…” I muttered, staring at a loaf of wheat, whole-grained, “all natural” bread. I surfed the aisle anyway, looking for anything, really. And when I came across a rack of donuts, I stopped to take a look. There were all kinds of flavors from plain to Boston Crème. I had to have one.

“Eight fuckin’ bucks! No fuckin’ way!” I screamed. The little girl and her parents standing five feet away hurried away in fright of me getting angry over the price of a fucking donut. If a donut could piss me off that badly, God knows what kind of rampage I’d go on if something worse happened. I didn't blame them for thinking so.

I had two options: (a) walk away and starve to death, or (b) steal the donut. In my desperation, I chose choice B. I shoved a cinnamon labeled donut into my pocket and ran like hell out the store. And when I opened the package labeled “cinnamon” and bit into the donut, I found that it was mango.

I hate mango.

(Exuent).