In retrospect it was the stupidest thing I had ever done. But that didn't mean it wasn't a great idea at the time. In fact, I often looked back on my idiotic decisions with fondness. Probably because, much like my life choices, I was absolutely moronic. My insatiable curiosity had landed me here, seated squarely in a plastic chair, arms restrained by the glacial grasp of a strait jacket, and staring down a committee of pompous, well-dressed demons as a very close friend of mine nervously explained my condition. Needless to say, I certainly wasn't in the most accommodating of positions. But what's the fun of starting at the end of a story? You, dear reader, probably want to know just how outlandishly stupid your very intriguing author is. And to truly understand the endless bounds of my mental retardation, one must delve a little deeper into the past.
All the way back to July 31, 2013.
This time I stood in the midst of the rather tepid summer, skulking around in the meat department of a Quick-n-Run supermarket, trying to decide whether saving a few cents on a half off item was worth the inevitably soul crushing food poisoning. I could easily buy the cheap meat and simply not partake in whatever sort of demonic altar my mother decided create with it. Then I was free to steal all the leftover change and add it to my collection. All I had to do was peel away the half-off sticker and dispose of it somewhere. No, no. That was far too much work. Too trivial to care about. I promptly slipped my fingers into the pockets of my denim shorts. Full price pork cutlets it was. I grabbed the package off the shelf before lumbering away in the direction of the kind-hearted but heavily disabled checkout boy.
There didn't seem to be much of a queue leading up to the overly perky employee, but I really didn't feel like having pointless questions about my day screeched at me by some ridiculously energetic freak. Either way I was going to be put in a position of severe aggravation. And when I was put in said position, shorter was better for both the people around me and myself. With that said, my pork cutlets and I slithered over to face single happiest woman on the face of the planet. Of course, all the smiles she doused herself with were there only to mask her true despair.
Her toothy grins and the chortling guffaw she called a laugh acted for the sole purpose of keeping her sane in the working class. I couldn't blame her though, I would be sad too if I worked at a supermarket. In fact, I would have killed myself long ago if I had been placed in this gravel-less fishbowl they call a market. Not because of any real issues though, simply from boredom. As it was I tended to do careless things when my life lacked natural excitement. Which happened to be the cause of the three metal plates in my head, the four screws in my femur, and the five stitches down my face. I thought of them more as trophies than injuries but the fact of the matter remained. Katrina Little was an idiot. A curious idiot.
"Kat! Hop on up, you're next!" My cutlets landed on the floor with an unsatisfying slap. I stumbled backwards, turning in all directions before realizing my call had come from no other than the perkiest woman alive. I let out a grumble of displeasure and I regained my composure. Unfortunately my habits also included a great deal of day dreaming. I didn't take very kindly to being woken from my trances, either. Most of the time an uninvited visitor forced me to jolt so forcefully I ended up tearing down the greater half of a city.
This time, however, I'd only knocked down a rack of candy bars and dropped my meat. Not that such an occurrence was any less horrendous than destroying the better part of a town. I bent down submissively and pawed at the now leaking container of blood and tissue. Eventually, it detached itself from the floor with a wretched squelch and I was able to hold it above my head so victoriously you would think it was nothing other than the great sword Excalibur.
My moment of greatness ended abruptly, though, as I literally threw the dripping package at my cashier as if I had been holding onto some sort of meat bomb. It hit her square in the cheek, leaving a trail of broken capillaries and E. coli infested juice in its wake. If I hadn't been such a sociopath, I probably would have been a bit more apologetic. But, unfortunately for her, I was a sociopath. So, instead of being a decent human being and helping her, I sat a five dollar bill on her counter and walked away with nothing but a soggy mess in my hands.