The baby is crying and you are out of beer. You decide it’s time for a little walk.
You step outside into the moist, crisp spring air and take a deep breath. You softly grumble your sentiments to the world. “Shit,” you say.
You stumble down the sidewalk, leering vacantly at anyone unfortunate enough to pass you on the path. Your spurred cowboy boots jangle with each footfall. Your paper-thin gym shorts proudly display your genitals, which several people who are definitely real have told you are “a good size”, to the world.
One brave soul manages a polite “Hello,” and a smile.
You give out a loud belch. “The fuck do you know about it?” you shoot back.
She apparently does not know anything about it, because she does not answer and instead doubles her pace, quickly pushing her baby’s carriage around the corner and out of view. Rude.
You come upon a little boy playing with a length of PVC pipe, wearing a cheap faux-felt tricorn hat. He occasionally brings the pipe up to his eye, scans back and forth, then shouts something or other before repeating the process.
“The hell are you doing?” you ask. Your mouth remains open long after you finish the question and a mosquito perches on the center of your tongue. You do not notice.
The little boy looks up at you, eyes full of excitement. “I’m a pirate!” he yells. “Arr!”
“What are you doing with that?” you ask, gesturing feebly at the pipe.
“This is my spyglass! Helps me see far, ya land-lubber!”
You lunge forward and quickly jerk the pipe out of the child’s hands. You try to break it over your knee but succeed only in bruising your leg. Angered, you begin to pound the pipe repeatedly on the pavement of the sidewalk. It will not break.
“What the fuck?” you shout angrily, and settle for throwing the pipe as hard as you can. It flies a pathetic ten feet before settling on the ground.
You turn your attention back to the little buccaneer. He stands in place, shaking and terrified. “Some pirate,” you say as you give a little chuckle. You lean in close. He was able to smell the liquor on you from twenty feet away, but now he is overwhelmed by the stink of drink on your breath as you whisper to him, “Pirates get the rope.”
The little boy is an enthusiastic and well-read roleplayer; he understands the threat. He makes a bee-line to what you assume is his house, screaming for his father.
You decide it’s time for a little run.