Maxwell

So there I was, walking mindlessly down the road on this sunny summer day, basking in the glory of the KBC’s first ever press conference. My dreams were manifesting themselves into reality: soon enough, the KBC would be a force capable of bringing the overall human population to an optimum level.

I continued walking along the path, until I reached one particular intersection. I looked straight ahead at the sign, which informed me that I had the right to walk.

I repeat: I had the right to walk.

Apparently I just have bad luck. Yet again, a car violated my pedestrian rights, nearly killing me in the process. I, of course, sought recourse, and thus delivered my typical response to such violations.

I spat on the car.

I’ve been told by colleagues of mine that my method of retribution for pedestrian rights violations is quite cowardly; the “criminal” is the driver, who is obviously in the car, and thus is unlikely to initiate a counterattack. I used to agree with this rationale.

Until this episode of spitting.

A woman, a large woman, hopped out of the car, wearing a countenance that conveyed little more than a degree of extreme hostility. She then walked up to me – stopping when she was two inches away from me – before making an asinine command: “Wipe it off.”

I proceeded to offer her the logic behind my actions, and how wiping it off conflicted with my ideology. “I’m sorry ma’am, but I will not do that. My saliva on your car is symbolic the punishment you should receive for violating my pedestrian rights.”

By now we had created a scene in the middle of the road. Traffic had come to a stand still, as her car – the car immediately in front of the traffic light, which had turned green during the course of our argument – was acting as little more than a roadblock. Passerbys honked their horns as they drove around the car.

As a tangent, it is worth noting that her car was quite impressive. It was a red antique car of some kind; most certainly the kind of car that stands out on the road. Perhaps the fact that the car was a particularly valuable asset magnified the meaning of my action. Perhaps.

“You’re going to be in some serious pain if you don’t wipe your fucking spit off my car.” She was apparently getting quite irritated regarding the matter, but I refused to compromise my integrity and my moral convictions out of a fear of violence. Although, truth be told, I must admit that at the time I was intimidated by her. Her physique was fairly masculine, while her persona radiated aggression and hostility.

In sum, I believe my response consisted of the ideal combination of strong and gentle, masculine and feminine, yin and yang. “I’d prefer if this dispute was resolved in a pacifistic manner. But I simply refuse to wipe the spit off your car, for that would insinuate apology.”

The next thing I knew, I was on the sidewalk a few feet over, staring up at the sky. I had viciously been kicked in the face. By the time I regained my consciousness, she was standing over me, mumbling some profanities. Fearing for my life, I pulled out my latest acquisition: a dinky, four inch knife.

She gently pushed my hand away as I pulled out the knife, passively wishing to prevent the fight from escalating to the next level. She returned to her car and waited. The traffic light had become red once again.

But I was not through with her. No I was not.

I walked up to her passenger door and began calmly chipping the paint away. As I peered in the car, I saw two things: (1) her ugly, putrid face; and (2) a baby, wrapped in a blanket.

The selfish woman obviously felt as though she could wound me from inside of the car. Accordingly, she opened the passenger door, hoping it would slam into me and knock me backwards. I must admit that her first attempt was a mild success; I was taken aback by the action, and stumbled backwards.

No matter, though; I quickly regained my composure and resumed chipping paint off the passenger door, which had swung back towards the car and was now inches away from being shut. And that is when she committed an act of unprecedented foolishness, an act that created that madness that now is.

From my perspective outside of the car, I could see her approaching the passenger door again. My thought was that she would try to wound me in the same asinine manner as before, by forcefully pushing the door towards me. Accordingly, I reasoned that her entire body mass would be directed in striking the door.

So I quickly thought to myself: what if she didn’t hit the door? What if the door wasn’t there?

Amused at the idea, and seeking to inflict as much pain as humanly possible upon this source of evil, I pulled the door towards me. Much to my amusement, her clumsy body tumbled and lost balance; she fell downwards towards the bottom of the car.

And that’s when I saw the opportunity. The opportunity to inflict emotional pain upon this filthy, immoral creature; the opportunity to commit an act of Christ-like heroism.

There were three factors to my opportunity:

1. Open door.
2. Off-balanced woman.
3. Baby.

I took the baby. And I ran with it.