Back to the Reality at Hand

Oh, the human cockroaches had taken all the good hiding spaces and had left paunchy, soiled Harold where he had dropped in the middle of the tiled lobby floor.  It wasn't as if a decent hiding space would have helped him much though.  Being the last one standing during a bank robbery generally puts one at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to stealth.  Harold was never good at the concept of stealth anyway.

On a good day, it was hard for Harold to think through details.  This could be considered so not a good day by most if not all standards. He knew early in life that his chosen profession was not going to be surgeon or engineer.  He felt lucky that McDonald's had become so popular in his lifetime as it offered him a steady job, a job that a semi-intelligent pet rock could master.  Deep down he was jealous of pet rocks for a variety of reasons including the fact they could perform his job as well as he.  He never made any bones about his employment abilities or lack thereof.   Poor decision-making skills was just one of his shortcomings.

His head pounded like a drummer with a poor sense of timing, playing the theme from the old Batman television show.  His eye jellies throbbed violently with each beat, throwing his sense of balance into a flaming tailspin.    He silently cursed that tights-wearing scoundrel, Adam West.  He tried to lift his head up, but someone must have come along while he was away at the birthday party and filled his head with concrete.  When did his head get so obnoxiously heavy?  It wasn't like extra brain was added for his benefit, was it?  After struggling for a few moments to lift his noggin, it forced its way back to the tile with an unhealthy thud.  OUCH.  Two inches worth of lift hurt this much?

"That's gonna leave a mark" thought Harold.  As if falling five feet to the ground didn't leave a mark on Harold's bean, then the second two inch fall was the mark-producing fall of the century.  That's how things worked in Harold's world.

As much as Harold wanted to return to the birthday party already in progress, he knew he was a target where he was positioned.  A very large target to men with guns, he imagined.  He must find a way to divert attention from his immense figure and join the other human cockroaches whom he knew were watching his every move from their caches.  Maybe he could divert attention to the nose-ring clad girl.  He never liked girls who wore blue eye-shadow anyways.

The End

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