This is my story. I tried a new style, we'll see how it goes. Critiques are helpful and appreciated.

Patrick hated buses. Detested them, actually. They were dirty, crowded and smelled like gasoline and bird poop. Actually, that was the perfect description for the color of this particular bus. Bird poop. A sort of creamish-greenish-brownish ‘color’ that looked much more suited stuck clotted to the tail feathers of a pigeon. Speaking of pigeons, Patrick decided he hated them too, along with birds in general. Dirty greedy little creatures, the lot of them. The parks were simply overcrowded with them, making it nearly impossible to ride a bicycle with any real attempt at safety. After a rather unfortunate incidence involving a hot dog cart, a fountain and a stray cockatoo, Patrick had opted to sentence his bicycle to the woodshed and take the train instead, which he soon discovered he also detested.

Patrick was quite satisfied with this train of thought and happily shifted the blame for all of his current problems onto pigeons in general. This in turn led him to reminisce fondly about his third cousin the taxidermist who had died just this past decade, god rest his poor soul. Actually, Patrick wasn't all too sure which god would be interested in blessing the soul of a dead man who killed animals for a living. Especially just because some poor sod on a train asked him to, and particularly when said sod was only thinking about his long dead third cousin because he was having morbid thoughts about birds. No, he decided, shaking his head. If there was a god up there (or down there, or over there, or maybe even inside there), he would probably be much too busy feeding the poor and stopping war. Or maybe drinking whiskey and watching boxing on his shiny plasma television screen, which seemed more likely. One never knew.

Pamela was frightened by lunatics. She was also frightened by dogs, lip balm, public transport, sticky notes, darkness, loud noises and periwinkle blue. Lunatics, however, she feared the most. Two seats next to her, was a man that she decided with one hundred percent surety was completely out to lunch. He had been muttering under his breath ever since he had boarded the bus ten minutes back and she could have sworn she had just heard the words “taxidermist”, “god” and “television screen”. Also, in the back pocket of his trousers was a handkerchief that was trimmed in blue stitching and had a large “P” monogrammed onto the corner. She could only guess that it stood for “periwinkle” and shuddered, drawing herself deeper into her worn pea coat. This in turn limited her field of vision and the darkness combined with the periwinkle blue lunatic two seats over caused a light panic attack. Screeching, she dove under the seat across from her, desperately trying to stuff herself into the two cubic feet of space.

Patrick blinked owlishly at the short fat legs clothed in grey woolen slacks sticking out in front of him. “Er, ma'am?” he tried cautiously. Another short screech was the reply.

Patrick blinked yet again, unsure of what to do. He thought to himself that life hadn't properly prepared him for situations like this and wondered with indignation to whom he ought to complain. Perhaps this god person might be useful, although he hadn't proved to have been all that successful of a consult as of yet. Of course, even if a consult could not be obtained, Patrick was only a paltry thirty-two years old. Omnipotence wasn't expected of him for at least another forty-five. Still, a general knowledge of how to handle oneself in the presence of an obvious lunatic would be immensely helpful given the current situation. This woman was quite obviously completely out to lunch.

Paul decided he was in a bit of a quandary. Apparently, some batty woman at that back of the bus had attempted to stuff herself under her seat and was screeching some pig slop about periwinkle handkerchiefs. He would very much like to do something about it, except that he was currently preoccupied with navigating this particular bus down a particularly crowded road. The stupid git who designed the bus installed the loudspeaker microphone just out of reach, too. Deciding there was nothing else for it, he leaned over as far as his corpulent build would allow, squinting and sticking out his tongue in concentration, fingers splayed and twitching as he extended himself as far as possible.

Paul's triumph was regrettably short lived, for he had only managed to get out, “See here, now, you—” over the speaker system before the bus promptly hit the side of a car that was crossing the intersection. The woman was quite secure under her seat. Paul, unfortunately, was killed instantly with a look of righteous indignation permanently set onto his face. While this fact made no difference to him, it did cause his family do appreciate him more at his funeral and he was remembered fondly as brave Uncle Paul, sacrificing his life for those of his passengers. Everyone ignored the fact that this was complete bollocks, remembering only his look of self sacrifice.

Patrick had a concussion and was hospitalized for a week before his mother took him home. He blamed the entire situation on animals in general and procured a job at the local zoo, where he did his best to make the flamingos as uncomfortable as possible.

Pamela may have come out physically unscathed, but her mental state quickly deteriorated. She was checked into the Sunny Dale Center for the Uniquely Different and Special People the next month, where she began eating her own hair and listening to outrageous amounts of Sonny and Cher.

God took another pleasantly burning gulp of Jack Daniels, let out a comfortable belch, and flipped the station to Antiques Road Show.

The End