How could he have known? How would he have acted had he known? Clearly questions for a later point but every speck of knowledge had a beginning, a question much like these that started it.
In this particular instance Joe Brimbsy (Say it kids, 'Bhri-mm-see') started off his search for knowledge with a rather innocent albeit rhetorical question "Why does my dog always have to shit there?" he grumbled to himself as he stood, in nose-wrinkling dismay, over a rather steamy load on his morning paper.
He eyed his dog with weary suspicion as he wandered back in the house to grab a plastic bag, his somewhat tattered white bathrobe fluttering momentarily as he spun on his heels. He could only guess that in the dog world his seemingly dimwitted pooch was known as a great political satirist as he once again inspected his paper in the chance that some of it might be salvageable; the now crude smear blotting out a portion of a certain presidential face in what could only be viewed as a cartoony "dirty sanchez."
Scrapping his minor attempt at salvage he simply crumpled the paper in on itself and tossed it into the plastic bag; shutting the front door behind him as he moved back inside the house,tossing the bag in to the garbage bin in the kitchen and changing the bag in it to take out for the city workers to collect.
"A perfect start for what will undoubtably be a bitch of a day..."he thought to himself as he examined the coffee maker in the kitchen now, having placed the garbage bag off to one side of the front door to grab on the way out. He figured the coffee must still be good, no moldy floaters on the top of the coffee and it still smelt coffee-esque. So he took the coffee pot out from underneath the coffee machine and poured it into a thermos, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he did so. Leaving the lid off the thermos he popped the mettalic cylinder into the microwave and pressed the button to set it for 3 minutes, wandering off to his bedroom as a quiet hum began to emit from the microwave.
Suddenly he was overcome with the sensation that he was forgetting something as he walked into his room, running his right hand over his stubble-covered face in a groggy attempt to wake himself up.
"Have some coffee...and write out the list...good way to start this day..." he thought before he realized what it was that he had forgot.
#1: Get the fuckin metal out of the microwave.
Running to the microwave in a sudden jolt of fear for his beloved microwave he ran into the kitchen with some bravodo; his dirty, socked feet sliding him across the kitchen floor for a moment, nearly tearing up as the smoke reached his eyes. While the microwave appeared to have survived the torment with supernatural abilities unexplainable by man; his favourite coffee thermos lay in a black puddle of melted plastic, old coffee and metal.
Sighing he hung his head over his dish filled sink, his hand sliding the window open and looking out at the rain-soaked day.
#2. Kill that fuckin guy.
"That fuckin guy!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, throwing his hands up in the air to accentuate his venomous contempt for Bernie. Bernie Briggs, you couldn't make a name so horrible if you tried. The guy was a walking testemant to reasons why abortions should be legalized. Joe figured that Bernie must have been a sheep rapist in a past life and was cursed to a life of ugliness and idiocy, though mostly the idiocy. That idiocy was a curse to everyone around him too, and to Joe, a curse in the most straight forward of fashions. The man was a master cock blocker.
It's not that Bernie ever did it on purpose, as a social outcast amongst the general male populace of the small town he often clamored for their attention in whatever way he could, usually by bribing them with excessive amounts of alcohol and whatever jackassery he could get himself into (fire crackers and bodily orfices were nothing to rule out from his books...or the others). But whenever it came to Joe, he was always there at the precise moment to ruin every chance he's had at getting laid in the past 20 years.
People don't call the Sahara Desert a "dry spell", it';s a place where people go to die, and Joe was beginning to think that his penis was starting to march off into that mirage filled sunset, looking for the oasis that is a womans touch, though it would be a short lived trek as it became withered, chaffed, and altogether displeased with the lack of scenery.
He looked at the time, 10:30am. Maybe he should leave the murder till later in the day, no sense killing someone without caffeine. He erased number two and kept that on standby for a later point. He scratched at his greasy hair with the eraser of the pencil, plucking a half butt of a cigarette out from the ash tray and lighting it as he contemplated.
"What should two be then?"