Philosophical Musing on Car Theft and General Schmuckery

One floor down I was trying to make sense of Katy being there.

Two floors down the stitch in my side morphed into a searing pain of epic proportion, or at least bad enough to make me feel like overstating.

Three floors down the blood pooling in my shoes was enough to make a sickly squishing noise, an ominous spluck with each hurried step.

Four floors down plans changed, sending me stumbling between the cars. I’d always held car theft as petty, opportunistic and overly glorified in trashy video games. Circumstances at this point dictated a reevaluation of my formerly staunchly held position.

At about the time I was coming around to a new way of thinking, the cement floor did the weirdest thing, flipping up and smacking me in the face. Truly bizarre, I know, unbelievable even, but it’s nicer to say than I passed out like a drunk high school student, mid-stride, at high speed, like a schmuck.

Needless to say, I didn’t expect to wake up in the back of a ratty station wagon, or wake up at all frankly.

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