Weariness

A scruffy and jaded looking man asked for another shot of whiskey.

"You sure you want more of those, Jim?" asked the barman with an intonation of a man who has grown accustomed to repeating this phrase over and over again.

Jim just motioned with his hand towards the empty glass in front of him with an equally trained gesture. It was more of a reflex, really.

If you woke him up in the middle of the night he could still order a shot of whiskey flawlessly.

"You haven't told me why you came back," said the barman. It was a late Thursday afternoon and the crowd was sparse. Lack of better options convinced the barman to pick up the conversation again.

"What?" asked Jim. He almost looked up from his glass. He was in his fourties and he was tired. His neck was muscular from looking up from his glass and asking for another shot of whiskey.

"You've told me you left this place 20 years ago. You said you traveled a lot. But you came back here. Why?"

"I don't know. Who the fuck cares?" Jim asked as he played with his glass of whiskey. If he was a glass he'd be filled with bitterness.

Jim wasn't a wordsmith. He wasn't even a wordsmith's apprentice. Not anymore, anyway.

He emptied the glass and asked for another. The barman complied.

"Besides," Jim continued, "Like I said, I don't know. I guess maybe I wanted to see what changed here over the years."

"And what do you think? 20 years is a lot of time."

"No shit," Jim replied as he was adjusting himself on the bar stool. "Barely recognize this old shithole. Coffee shops and whatnot everywhere. Who the fuck drinks so much coffee?"

"Young people and hipsters. And young hipsters," said the barman as he was drying up glasses with a towel.

"What the fuck is a hipster? There's more coffee shops than bars or food stores."

Jim had no time for the youth. He knew exactly how much of a twat he was in his day.

"Those young pricks never change. They stay the same, just go different ways about their twatishness," he said, "World around them changes. Circumstances change. But at their core they're always tedious little prats until they grow up and see shit in different light. Get some perspective, you know. That doesn't happen till they walk out of that coffee shops and stop wearing stupid clothes and sitting with their faces stuck in a fucking phone and whatever that fucking silver plank is. It's got an apple logo on it."

Jim now hated coffee, stupid clothes, technology and apples. He had a great capacity for hating things. You couldn't beat him at a game of hate. Disdain and contempt were his forté.

"Pour me another round," he said to the barman. "Probably my last one for tonight. Life's tiring when you have to deal with so much shit around you. I think I came back here 'cause I remembered it to be a quiet place. You could fucking think here. And now? Strange noises and commotion and those," he clenched his fist slightly, "fucking coffee shops on every damn corner. This town has got like everywhere else. Looks like them, is like them. Fuck originality, huh?"

He received his whiskey and downed it instantly. He put down his final empty glass for tonight with an expertise of a seasoned drinker. He threw a bill on the counter and left without saying a word.

He'll probably be back tomorrow. If not in this bar, then another one. If not in this town, then somewhere else. It's all the same now, anyway.

Jack Slink's Untimely Departure From The Land Of The Living

"What happened to the poor bastard?" a woman in a black dress asked a man standing next to her among a crowd of people wearing black clothes.

It was a funeral. A dozen of men and women have gathered around a freshly-dug ditch.  

"They say young Jack 'Slinky' Slink had an accident," he replied, without raising his eyes from the coffin that was being brought inside the cemetery.

"Died of severe head trauma, or something," his friend standing to the right pitched in with further explanation.

"And his intestines got tangled up, or something," a man standing to the left added. 

They haven't said anything else for a few moments. The coffin was being slowly placed inside the ditch by three men – six feet in total. 

"He was reckless, no two ways about it," one of the men said after the pause. "Used to toy with danger. Sooner or later it would catch up with him."

"Nah, I heard he got mixed up in some shady business," another woman approached the conversing group. "You know, drugs and alcohol. I saw him tripping a few times. It finally got to him. He was feeling empty inside, he once told me. He wanted out. Some mobsters chased him down and pushed him down the stairs. He couldn't handle it. They made it look like an accident," she said.

Nobody replied. They didn't know Slinky that well. Most of them only made a passing acquaintance as they saw him rolling up and down the streets, trying to get by. Slinky, a stunt performer, played in many low-key movies where the paycheck wasn't overly fat.

"Pretty ironic he died in spring, huh?" a man offered, to relieve the awkward silence.

"What's ironic about that?" the first woman asked as she adjusted her hat.

"It's Slinky we're talking about here." 

The coffin was finally put inside the ditch. Bruce Springsteen's song stopped playing. The priest said some things nobody listened to and they left, grieving for another half an hour.

Helen's Goulash Sunday In Danger?

"Listen, Helen. I can't let you do that," he said, while removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt's cuffs. He put his suitcase against the wall. He had just returned from work. He was going to sit in front of a dinner that she made for him. It was a huge pile of meat of some description. He was hungry and, after all, he was a dinosaur.

"Why not, Terrence?" she asked, while putting on a pink tracksuit, ready to go out.

"Remember what happened last time you took 'em out for a walk?" he asked his wife, while examining his delicious meal.

"I remember, I do. It doesn't mean it will happen again!" she tried to convince her husband while plugging in the earphones into her iPod.

"What if it meets another one if its kind again? You want a war? You know how they are. Just killin' each other all the time. Gotta keep them in check," he reasoned while munching on a huge piece of thigh with a bone sticking out.

"Okay, Terrence, you're right. I just wanted them to get some workout before we invite Tawney and Richard for Sunday dinner. I want my goulash to be the best ever," she said, and looked at a dozen of humans sleeping in separate cages.

Trevor The Fly Peacemaker

"Don't do it, Francis!" one fly pleaded to another.

The other fly was waving and pointing a gun at something.

"I have to, Trevor. I'm done with her shit. Every day is the same," he ranted, fuming, intoxicated. "She won't even look at me. All I'm left to do is deal with her crap. At first I didn't mind, I was trying not to get too attached. But now I want something more from her and she... she just doesn't care, the fat cow," said Francis, clearly unhinged when discussing her. She was a real cow.

"If you think killing her will solve anything then you're wrong. I know the place you're in right now stinks. You feel like you're up against a wall. Carrying a disease. I used to be like you. Angry, frustrated, getting shitfaced. But then I opened my eyes. I went places and I was always buzzing to meet someone new," said Trevor, "As we flies say, there's plenty more cows in the fields."

"Is that really true?" asked Francis, as he seemed to calm down a bit. "Do you think I can land someone right for me? Should I just meet new people and see what sticks?"

"You're what... a day old? Still young. You don't have to swat away your dreams, dude," said Trevor, a very wise fly. "I know it hurts right now but the wounds will heal soon. Time flies when you meet someone new. Now put the gun down, Francis."

Francis reluctantly put the gun down, looked at her for the last time, turned around and said,

"Thanks, Trevor. You're a great wingman. I know I can count on you whenever shit hits the fan. What do you say," he started, with a smirk on his face, "let's go visit the neighboring field. I think I saw a fine piece of ass over there," he suggested and they both laughed.

The Morning After (1)

'Owww...'

I opened my eyes and waited for the blurriness to wear off. Flickering lights were dancing on my face as if someone with an impish grin on his face was playing with ON/OFF switch. Ouch. "Easy," I gasped. "I'm gonna get ya." When I regained clear vision I realized those were actually sunbeams that managed to get past tree branches. Wind was blowing hard, causing trees to lean back and forth like a drunk on a rocking chair which allowed sunbeams to peek through once in a while contributing greatly to much of my initial annoyance.

I elevated my upper body, using elbows as support, and took a quick look around with my barely functioning eyes. It seemed as if I woke up in a dense forest composed mainly of high pines, with solitary birches growing here and there. There was nothing out of ordinary about the forest. There were trees, and um, forest cover littered with dried and broken branches and pine cones everywhere.

The ground felt a bit damp and my clothes were slightly wet like laundry hanging in the sun for ten minutes. The air was unusually fresh. It must have been raining here not so long ago. I stood up and removed some of the dirt from my clothes. It was just a tip of the iceberg. I looked up to see a jaybird looking at me with a pitiful expression on its cocky bird face. "I don't think I'm at my best look wise. That must have been a rough night," I thought. I haven't had much in terms of last night's events recollection. I decided to try and postpone this issue for the time being. The bird flew away but not before dropping a nice little gift right next to my feet. "Thanks." I said, rather insincerely.

As I was elevating myself to a position that was vaguely similar to the default homo sapiens stance, I felt a surge of pain go through my things and calves. "Whoa," I mumbled as I stumbled onto the nearest tree to stop myself from falling. I hugged the tree like I used to hug a teddy bear when I was a kid.

I didn't drink as much back then, though.

I collected myself after a dozen seconds and proceeded to switch my body to a more distinguish 'hooker-at-a-lamppost' pose. I tried to think how much I would charge for a cheeky handjob, especially with the financial crisis and the ever-weakening dollar, but I had to cast those thoughts away mainly because they were ridiculous. "Come on, man," I reasoned. "If you're not paying for this kinda stuff then you shouldn't charge either. Out of principle. You are a man of principle, aren't you?" There was an awkward silence in my head following that question.

It turned out that attempting to formulate thoughts, however half-witted they were, caused a headache to wake up from its stupor. "Dammit," left my mouth as I grimaced over and over again. "My face will have wrinkles like an old dog's ball sack before I even hit 30 if I keep this up," I thought. My head felt like a wooden plank being nailed to something by a particularly clumsy carpenter.

After a few moments of fighting a losing battle against the pain I went through my pockets to see if I had a phone or at least some painkillers. I had neither of those items which was extremely unfortunate because I had to both contact somebody and get rid of the headache. "Life won't even give me any lemons," I mused philosophically, in what was probably my best moment since waking up on that morning.

Rummaging through pockets didn't yield much in terms of results as I only had spare change in my pants and a piece of baguette in my hoody. My first thought was to buy some water because I was as thirsty as a dry tomato (my face must have looked similar) and also purchase painkillers. Unfortunately, after looking around, checking to be absolutely sure, I was one hundred percent certain there were no shops in my vicinity. It was a forest, after all. I decided to eat the baguette so as not to impair my movements with unnecessary burden. It was stale but it was something. And I was as hungry as a cannibal stranded on an island with no people.

Fueled by those superb nutrients I slowly began to make my way in an unspecified direction. It was there and then that I gathered my first experience in sailing as I was carried and pushed mainly by the wind. Wherever possible I supported myself with trees which I started to consider to be my friends because they were always there for me. "Thanks, trees. You're all invited to my birthday next month. You don't have to bring anything," I said. "There will be a cake and a barbecue and hopefully sun, 'cause that what you trees eat, eh?"

At one point, after wandering aimlessly for some odd twenty minutes, I finally heard something in the distance. I had no idea what it was except that it was a sound. I quickly gathered that there were no other reasonable options but to follow that noise so I began to walk in its general direction. It grew louder and louder and after a few minutes I saw what looked like a huge ball of poo rolled up and left there by a ridiculously large scarab.

The ball of poo started to move. I began approaching it carefully when suddenly I recognized it! That ball of poo was my friend Mark, and the noise he let out was one of his stomach's contents leaving his mouth.

"Mark! Hey, Mark!" I yelled and jogged to him. He somehow managed to pull up his head and looked at me. His face suggested he just left the filming set of a zombie movie after being given a role as an extra. He groaned and growled at me. It freaked me out at first, but as I did not have my sawed-off shotgun with me, I had to try to talk to him.

"You okay, buddy?" I asked as I looked into his red eyes and pale face. I glanced underneath him to see a pool of what was his last night's meal remix that looked like an old, moldy pizza. I hoped he wouldn't fall into it, in case I had to carry him back.

"Wh... huh? R... Rod?" he muttered as his eyes started to register something other than a ground full of vomit. He scratched his head carelessly and with all his strength he flexed his rather wimpy brain muscles and put together a question that pierced right through my mind, placing in doubt my take on philosophy of humanity and existence. "Whe... where is my hat?"


To be continued...

Mikkelson's Band

"I've no idea. What should we do? Sir?" All eyes were turned to a towering man with a scar running across his face. His scar wasn't actually running across his face as it was mostly stationary. It only moved when the towering man produced facial expressions, like he did just now. And now again.

"Split up. Posen, you go north. Leez, you head south. Oph, check east. Mikkelson, head west. I'll stay here and finish my roasted chicken before those pesky rats claim it," the towering man said and threw a towel over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir! What should we do when we find him?" asked a male man named Mikkelson who was a blond Swede with yellow hair and loved folk music, sweets and expressionism.

"Bring him back, Mikkelson. And be careful. Browser can be dangerous. As dangerous as a volcano or a gun or an angry velociraptor," the towering man who had a towel thrown over his shoulder as he prepared to eat roasted chicken warned everyone who wasn't Mikkelson and he warned Mikkelson as well.

Mikkelson was a Swede. He was of considerable size as his diet was composed mainly of sugar. That's why they called him a Swede and because he was born in Sweden as well. He wasn't a good composer neither of music nor of diet. He was prone to mass food consumption and he was a highway in a sense that he had no limits. His daily calories intake was someone else's weekly calories intake and his outtake was even larger, without needlessly getting into specifics. Needless to say he was prone to clogging up the toilet and causing people to experience the experience of exasperation. He explained that he couldn't control his excrement production standards because the remote to his bowels had fallen behind a sofa. Remote was a great location to be in after Mikkelson had visited the toilet. Toilets absolutely hated Mikkelson. They were crying their porcelain tears and flooded their surroundings making all the tiles around them wet and angry and sad like a worn out umbrella.

Mikkelson had a voice as deep as a very deep well or a hole or Deep Purple. His voice used to echo wherever there was space and circumstances for such phenomenon to occur. Back in his day he was able to sing songs and let his calm voice spread over the room like jam on a slice of bread. He loved jam sandwiches and he loved singing. Back in his day he would perform at nights in bars and small local festivals with his band of equally blonde Swedes who had a penchant for exposing their naked chests and singing songs whilst playing on musical instruments. They were good folk and used to play decent Swedish folk and enjoyed their lives like a human baby would if its brain was developed enough to understand that it is being fed food for free and has its butt cleaned up for it.

Mikkelson's band was almost successful. They were once approached by a small corpulent man who was as tall as small women and turned out to be a record company executive. He was impressed with their performance at the Malmo Music Festival festival.

"I am very impressed with your performance, boys," he told them in Swedish because they were in Sweden, before telling them his name is Erik. "My name is Erik."

"Thanks, Erik," one of the band members, a drummer, replied whilst playing with drumsticks like a ninja with knives or a porn star with someone's anus.

"Seriously, boys, that was impressive. What was your band's name again?" he asked nonchalantly without chaloir.

"Jarl Jam."

"Hmm," Erik mused, "Swear I've heard it somewhere. Weren't you popular back in the day? Heh, heh," he attempted a joke but failed as nobody laughed. Not even his family, who admittedly weren't there at the time.

"We wanted to reflect our Scandinavian roots by incorporating such an important title to our culture as 'Jarl'. As for the second part, our lead singer Mikkelson really loves jam. He wouldn't have it any other way," the bass player explained while nodding his head towards Mikkelson who was making sandwiches with a jelly looking substance in the attic. "You have to reach compromise sometimes. Especially with Mikkelson."

"What was the name of the song that you played? Girls certainly loved it or maybe it was the naked chests. Still a good piece of music," Erik complimented while sitting down on a dark chair that had a long, tiresome life.

"It's called 'Wake Me Uppsala'. It's a song about loss and grief. Sven here," the drummer pointed at a napping blond Swede who fell asleep with a bowl of pudding on his lap and a flute next to his knee. "He realized he lost his wallet when he woke up after a very busy night in Uppsala and was overcome with sadness. When he told us what happened we immediately started writing a song and after we were done we went out looking for the wallet."

"Did you find it?"

Mikkelson's band was almost successful because they were about to sign a big contract with Erik's record company. They were about to make big money, huge piles of cash and hookers and a generous insurance package. They were already planning to spend their newly acquired wealth to help poor people like themselves – themselves. All was going well except for the bass player's diagnosis of leukemia but suddenly they split. They split in a split second as the conflict between the members escalated quicker than an escalator as the latter is rather slow. Mikkelson had a very violent argument with the drummer after which he saw no other option but to leave the group and travel with his parents to America.

"That's it. I've had enough. I'm leaving Jarl Jam and I'm going to travel with my parents to America," he said, as he was massaging his bruised knuckles still sore after the violent disagreement.

"Fine," said the drummer who was still limping a bit even though he wasn't walking right now. "I'm not going to miss you and your crap. We will find another lead singer and will send you postcards from Jarl Jam's world tour."

"You won't know my address," Mikkelson rightly observed.

"Write it here," the drummer pulled down his pants and displayed his bare backside to Mikkelson who was very hungry and had to hurry because he had a dentist appointment. He left without leaving an address on the drummer's naked butt.

Mikkelson hasn't pursued a career in show business ever since. Initially, he felt very upset about the band's collapse and even jam stopped tasting the same. He was sad and disappointed that he failed to fulfill his dream and bemoaned the amount of money he was never going to earn while doing something he loved. This state lasted over three weeks. After he arrived in Seattle he was well over it and began earning plenty of money in his father import-export company which he absolutely loved doing.

Mikkelson has always been an avid enthusiast of timber, hydropower, and iron ore and the fact that his father's company was importing precisely those goods from Sweden to United States made him very happy and reasonably wealthy and almost made him forget Jarl Jam. He can still be heard by his neighbors or burglars humming 'Wake Me Uppsala' in the shower.

As for the rest of the band, they were still looking for a new lead singer when the bass player died aged 20. Shortly after that the pudding loving band member was sent to jail for two years after beating a man half to death with a flute. The drummer put his pants back on and became a mechanic playing with wrenches like a ninja with knives but lost his right arm a year later. The dream of Jarl Jam died and was no longer alive.

__________________
Previous chapter:
Browser's Childhood

Browser's Childhood

"Who killed him?" asked a tall, wide man with a scar running across his face and a sense of authority booming in his voice. He spat out his cigar and stamped on it with his heavy boot.

"Think it was Browser, sir," replied a man of considerably smaller frame with no scars running across his face and a sense of inferiority resounding in his voice. He scratched his forehead and looked around to see what was around him.

Browser has always been the one when it came to people killed by him. Nobody else has ever killed people who were killed by Browser. It was a fact. A true fact and not an opinion. Browser was very proud of that achievement. He was as proud of that as he was proud of his achievement of winning a long jump competition during his high school days in Wapakoneta, Ohio.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I won a long jump competition during my high school days in Wapakoneta?" Browser would ask over a burning campfire in the camp. "I bet you want to know the secret… Well, I jumped the furthest. It was a sunny day and the sun was shining. I ran and I jumped. Oh, the glory. They gave me a statuette of a guy jumping long and far. I don't think it was made of gold 'cause the coating started to peel off after a month. Still, it was a proud day. My ma was proud and my da was proud, I think. He wasn't there at the time as he was away somewhere. The steel company he worked for as a delegate used to send him all over the country to places like Chicago, Albuquerque and Topeka where he used to work as a delegate for the steel company. He loved his work and bourbon. He loved his wife, my ma, and he was a massive Bengals fan. He'd go to games and…"

Every time Browser was telling the story of his long jump competition win or any other stories he used to tell, he steered the discussion into a tale about his father. He loved his father as much as he would love his own parents. His parents loved Browser as much as they would love their own child. It was a love at first sight as his parents loved Browser when they saw him for the first time. It was about the time when he was born, possibly in the moment of birth. His father was there to witness it, said Browser, even though Browser didn't remember it and only knew this because his mother told him that because she was there and was old enough of to store memories and understand certain events, unlike Browser at the time.

Browser was a good child. He was a strong-willed child with a strong will and he held off with drinking and smoking for fifteen years. His father was very proud as he knew what it took to resist temptation of drinking and smoking. He tried to stop drinking and smoking but only lasted two months. Browser had good grades and was a good child. He was a good child up to the point where he grew up and stopped being a child. But before that he was a good child who loved apple pie, girls and basketball but wasn't quite fond of algebra and wild animals like bears and raccoons that used to ransack his backyard leaving it a complete mess. Browser had to clean it up the next day to learn about responsibility and other similar qualities that no one respected.

"It will teach you responsibility and other similar qualities. Everyone should respect them," his father used to say, quoting articles by smart people who were writing smart articles in newspapers for everyone to read and learn and then use the newspapers along with tinder to start Sunday barbecues whenever people were having a Sunday barbecue. "Just ask your mother."

"What? Oh. Yes, yes of course. Your father is right. Listen to your father," Browser's mother used to say while dusting off dust off of antlers nailed to the wooden wall with nails. She was a woman who offered little to no insight, was tall and skinny, liked to watch soap operas and was very focused on her duties to her husband and to America. She was very focused on the activities she was performing, as her husband used to point out with a grin on his face whenever he was spending time drinking and smoking with his buddies at a pub.

"She's very focused on the activities she's performing" he would say to his buddies at a pub, "if you know what I mean." He would then take a sip of a drink and smoke a cigarette.

"I think I know what you mean," said one of his buddies who knew what he meant.

Browser grew up in a quiet neighborhood and had dark hair. He had dark, unnecessarily long hair that used to poke him in the eyes whenever he was running against the wind. He was running against the wind a lot because it was windy a lot where he lived and he was running a lot playing basketball with other kids, throwing football with his father, and practicing long jump. He was a hopeful child with brave dreams like winning a high school long jump competition to earn himself respect and a statuette of a man jumping long and far. He had a distinct jawline and dark hair and was of average physical frame. He had no tendencies to gaining weight and he didn't gain much weight. He was quite tall as his parents were also considerably tall and he eventually grew taller than tables and small people.

He loved almost all of the animals. He grew up listening to "The House of the Rising Sun" and playing with his trusty dog Bucket. He would throw a weary, old, trusty baseball and Bucket would chase it. They would do it all afternoon if only Bucket wasn't getting tired after an hour. Bucket was a medium-sized, brown dog who loved to lie on the grass covered by sunshine and to lick Browser's face, especially if it was smeared with peanut butter. Bucket loved peanut butter and so did Browser.

"Are you giving peanut butter to Bucket again, son?" father would ask. "We told you it's not good for him to eat so much peanut butter, son. Ask your mother."

"What? Oh. Yes, yes of course. Your father is right. Listen to your father," Browser's mother would say, offering little to no insight and instead focusing on the activities she was performing.

Even though his childhood was uneventful, events have happened to Browser. He saw a man puke during a circus performance and he had a girlfriend. He had a girlfriend who had a boyfriend – him. She was one year younger than him and was a brunette. They used to ride bikes together and eat ice cream and throw paper planes into a lake and have the same hair color. Browser was fifteen at the time and she was fourteen, as she was one year younger than him. She liked Browser and she slapped him once when he blew up a frog right into her face. She didn't like having frogs blown up in her face but Browser wasn't aware at the time. Browser was considered a decent boyfriend material and other girls used to ask his girlfriend lots of questions.

"So have you two kissed already?" one of the girls swarming Browser's girlfriend would ask.

"Yeah, at least a little smooch?" another one would ask promptly.

"Have you seen him without a shirt?"

"Tell us! What is he like alone with you?"

"Did you grab his butt?"

"Do you have any cigarettes?"

Browser had to break up with his girlfriend when he found out she loved bears and raccoons and didn't respect responsibility and other similar qualities.

Browser broke his shoulder once when he was biking on a bike. He lost control of his bike when his Bengals cap had fallen off his head and distracted him long enough for his deceptive bike to swerve wildly and throw him onto the road like a person allergic to nuts spitting out a nut. Browser was angry that even though he was wearing a protective helmet it didn't prevent him from breaking his shoulder. He was angry because he couldn't play basketball and scratch his chin. The last thing he remembered before passing out was Bucket licking peanut butter off of his face. His parents were worried about Browser and they found him the best doctor on the shift in the local hospital. The local hospital was small but had medicine and doctors and it was enough to put Browser's shoulder back together like a chair leg. The place of his shoulder break is still itching Browser even today. When it does he scratches it and he's alright.

Not much else happened to Browser during his childhood. His childhood was uneventful and he completed his education without any problems. There were no problems except for the algebra teacher who really loved algebra and didn't like Browser who didn't like algebra and didn't like his algebra teacher. They once argued after class and Browser was ordered to stay after class so they could argue some more. The teacher won because he was older and had authority and authority was one of the qualities similar to responsibility that Browser was taught to respect and also because the algebra teacher was better at algebra and arguments. The algebra teacher later complained to Browser's parents that their son doesn't respect algebra and authority.

"I'm really sorry to say that your son doesn't respect algebra and authority," he would complain to Browser's parents. "I can see you're good folk. It doesn't add up. I'm really struggling to rationalize this complex situation. It's happened a number of times. We need to get to the root of this problem."

"We sure do. We don't know what may have caused it. Our son is a good son with a good heart and he wouldn't cause problems without a reason," Browser's father would reason.

"Well, his behavior is creating a division among his classmates. He needs to change it."

"We will look at this problem. I promise you that. Once we will go back home we will talk to our son."

"Does your wife agree to look at this issue as well?"

"What? Oh. Yes, yes of course. My husband is right. Listen to my husband," Browser's mother offered.

Browser's parents talked to their son once they went back home. They talked about the last Bengals game, the taste of steak, the difficult times for American economy and his behavior during algebra classes. They agreed on most of the issues and Browser was excused to play with Bucket. It all turned out very well because the algebra teacher became seriously ill and Browser found a common language with the substitute algebra teacher.

That's how Browser's childhood went. It was pretty uneventful, all things considered. Bucket died aged eleven which was a good thing because he was suffering a lot from hip dysplasia and Browser finally won the high school long jump competition and a statuette of a man jumping long and far during his last year at high school before applying to Ohio University. 

To be continued

Is that your final guess?

'Thought you'd never ask,' murmured Jim from under his red full cap with a little flashy round logo sewn onto it. A glimmer of madness sparked in his eye as he raised his eyebrows and tilted his face pugnaciously towards T. 

'Well, I am asking. What you've done seems like a very odd thing to do. I'm just puzzled,' explained T, simultaneously scratching his flashy round head and eating a mat square apple. Or was it the other way around? 'And as far as puzzle go, I'm just trying to put the pieces together,' continued T, as he was trying to put the pieces together. 

'Hah!' Jim snorted. He was clearly entertained by the whole conundrum. 'This is entertaining. Tell you what, T. Let's play a game. I'm gonna call it... "Guess"', he proposed as a fiendish grin appeared firmly planted on his face like a nice green plant. 'And guess what: you're gonna have to guess.'

'Oh man. Not this shit again.' T knew what was coming. 'I guess I'm gonna have to guess,' he sighed with a resignation in his voice so heavy, it made a bird fall onto the ground as it reached the flying creature's well hidden ears. The bird dusted off its feathers and looked angrily at the two men. It seemed to weigh the pros and cons and the problems and consequences it would face after killing two people and it ultimately decided against it, then flew away.

'Okay, dude. Let's do this!' Attentive observers would have sworn they saw droplets of saliva jumping for life out of Jim's filthy, excited mouth. 'Welcome to our show! Tonight's contestant number one is almighty T! Hello, T! PLEASE STEP INTO THE GUESS ROOM!' shouted Jim with pride booming in his voice, echoing through canyons and any geographical terrain features with similar characteristics. The atmosphere bounced the sound back towards the planet as it was ashamed of letting this abomination venture into the outer space.

'Alright, Jim, I know the drill.' T was anxious to get the whole ceremony over with as soon as possible. 'I worked on an oil refinery for 3 goddamn years. Let's get this whole ceremony over with as soon as possible.' 

'This is the first and last question,' said Jim, building up the tension and excitement. In his own head. 'Are you ready?'

'Yeah.'

'Why???' asked Jim, and everyone around them stood in silent expectation. Well, everyone certainly would have if they were there instead of not being there.

'Let's think,' said T, thinking, 'Maybe because you're a fucking lunatic? An absolute asshole of the highest proportions? A humongous prick?' T's answer was well thought out. He didn't leave a stone unturned during the journey to his mental palace.  

'Never took you for much of a Mad Max 2 fan,' said Jim playfully, and quickly retreated to his role of a game show host. 'Are you sure? One hundred percent? Are those your final answers?'

'Yes,' responded T patiently, knowing there is no other way around it than to play along. 'Those are my final answers.'

Jim paused for a second. He could have sworn he could testify via Spotify before a grand jury that he could hear a sound of a beating heart with volume turned up a couple of notches for dramatic purposes. 'Well, T... I know it's been a dramatic show so far. I know you had to dig deep like a miner and you had to journey into the depths of your essence, you had to take a step inside your soul... Sole. Get it? Hah, hah!' said Jim with all the unhealthy arousal of an electrocuted hamster and all the dignity of an undignified but certified bastard.

'No, you get TO it. I'm tired and I need to know why you did it.' argued T, with a sense of anxiety and tiredness. 

'Well, ladies and gentlemen, the correct answers are...' paused Jim to, supposedly, become even more annoying, 'We'll let you know after a quick commercial break. Stay with us!'

'No,' T's face turned both purple and 360 degrees around it's axis. 'This shit won't do. WHY THE HELL DID YOU STEP ON MY CAT, YOU DICKHEAD?'