Fast-Food Fury
Gazing out at the throngs of hobos gathered around feasting on your fried fish gifts, the words of the hobo king play through your mind: “No longer will you feed thineself by dumpster, can, or castaway crust…” A moment of divine inspiration reveals your purpose, your calling.
“Look at yourselves, you bums!” you cry in your best outside voice. A murmur of displeasure roils through the crowd, amplified, no doubt, by an utterance of the “B” word – the most derogatory term in the hobo kingdom. “That is what they have called us: bums, tramps, loiterers, schnorrers. We have won a small victory today, but they will not let us in peace for long. Deep run the waters of their hatred for our free spirited ways. Now, we end it. No longer do we need their refuse to feed our children. No longer do we need their scraps to set our tables. No longer will we live beneath their feet and bathe in their offal. Today, I say we take the fight to them.” A mighty cheer erupts from the crowd; a few hobos salivate wildly.
“Be still my friends,” says the hobo king, appearing beside you, “We are a peaceful people and to fight has never been our way. We retreat to the sewers and, if they come, we will repel them again as we have today.” Kneeling before you he pleads, “Our greatest hero. You have saved our kingdom from the brink of war, and now you use your powers to condone violence. Have you forgotten yourself? I will not allow you to plunge the world into chaos. Everyone must know their place.”
“It is you, old man, who stands in the way of true justice. No longer will the hobos be driven like prey into the filthy underground.” You reach into your pocket, withdraw a large piece of extremely hot fish and cram it into the king’s agape maw.
“Aaaahhh!” the king screams “The oil is burning my tongue!”
“Siiiiileeeennncccceee!” you yell, and kicking him to the ground, bury him in sizzling French fries until his noisome, prostrate form ceases its pointless struggling.
Stunned, the crowd stares at the pile of salted Kennebec potatoes that used to be their king. Seizing the moment, you raise both hands into the air exclaiming: “The king is dead, long live the new king! I will lead the hobo people to the glory they so deserve. Drop your signs for spare change, pick up your hats and arm yourselves.”
Many years later, you stare down from the ruins of a once great city – the grease fires burn still. Acrid fish-scented smoke lingers on the horizon. It was a long and bitter war, but thanks to strange powers, you led your people to victory after victory, stopping only once you had choked the life from the last of your enemies. Many wives have given you many children, and the spoils of your conquests are vast and rich. Despite immeasurable wealth, you sometimes think back and wonder what might have been. Sometimes you wish you had giant genitals.
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