I was walking down a dirty, rusted city street, gray clouds blazing, gravel emanating
sense of apathetic defiance
. Haunting brick windows
stared down from their towers, with glass protrusions mimic
ing the dental
situation of a jack-o-lantern
. Chain link
tapestries invaded the base of the sky in a strict and tangled fashion
. I wasn't observing any of this.
I was humming to myself.
Then the bastard sunk his teeth into my tender biceps.
How I managed to neglect the presence of a launched pit bull careening into my sphere of existence I won't analyze at this juncture. But I will say that I did not scream. I merely detached my arm and continued humming, and the beast seemed content to nestle down into the serene pavement and tongue my ulna, smiling through jaws of blood.
The real trouble started when I got back to my apartment.
My friend was playing Tekken 4 on our 12' black and white Sanyo, with the a/v cables hooked to a box with an RF coming out, which was hooked to a box with UHF wires with the little and cute metal U jaggers that are to be fastened with screwing.
"What'd I tell you about that." I said.
"Muh." he said.
I went to the salient fridge, and swiftly darted my hand into its maw during a moment of repentance to grab a hard Fresca, which I opened on the jagged topography of my shattered humerus; detaching causes shattering, as the case may be.
My friend threw the game controller out of the window, then leapt out after it to the pavement above. An apartment with a softly magnetic ceiling, strongly magnetic furniture and mildly magnetic footwear is a fun place to live.
There was a knock at the open door. I assumed to bleed upon the virulent policeman cranking himself there.
Then he jumped up and bit my calf.
I glanced down away from the magma at the poor soul; even gazed. For all the days there are upon this blue earth, by what cause did this man commence to biting, ripping, clawing and attempting to detach my very own leg, in my not very own apartment, in a wonderfully pooling pond of my not very own blood?
The ramifications of this certainly impossibly unservile situation were too much to bear. I just had to detach his head.
The magnetic jar sits on top of the metal Sanyo to this day, whichever one it may be. I mark the time by the measurement of the progression of disassociation of flesh from that exuberant man's pale skull; it's probably not very precise, at least not ATOMIC CLOCK precise.
Of course not.
Not that anyone cares, of course, but this was in all factuality a nodeshell rescue.