I drove on the highway. Despite the best efforts of the weather outside, I drove through the night with thin clouds of particles brushing past my windshield. I should not have been driving in the snow. And to make matters worse for myself, my windshield caked with mineral residue and a filthy grime from the roads and weather alike. My wipers would not remove it, despite my efforts of turning them on and off again.
I pulled into the parking space of a gas station convenience store, turning down the sound of my speakers playing viking metal a few decibels too loud. I considered cleaning my windshield. Blasphemy I thought. Surely it would be easier to ignore the problem and drive with my head tilted rather than devote my precious time and energy to cleaning my windshield.
Opening the glove box I sifted through my things. I produced a jar full of change and shut the compartment; slamming it several times before it would shut completely. Carefully I poured the contents of the jar into my hand. First, I sifted through the quarters; four dollars. I then collected together the dimes and nickels to add two dollars and eighty five cents. I hesitated for some time, pondering the predicament before me. I begrudgingly began to sift through the remaining pennies; producing fifteen.
Seven dollars. Tonight I would purchase a feast fit for a king.
I entered the establishment. It was bright, well lit. My eyes did not adjust for some time. The polished floor was caked with mineral deposit and salts from those who did not wipe their feet as I did. Haphazard fools they were; ones with no respect for the establishment that provided them the basic necessities of coffee, energy drink and highly processed foods. Classic rock played on the speakers throughout the store. Tasteless I thought. It would surely be better with viking metal.
I approached the kiosk and began constructing my feast of turkey, lettuce and bread. A frantic woman paced behind the counter; the only employee stationed to deliver sandwiches to those in need. Behind me stood two impatient looking teenagers, talking in a manner you'd expect of a band of uncouth youths. And to my side, ordering on the kiosk, was a man.
An oriental man he was, elderly in appearance; I guessed the man to be roughly in his fifties. The man was short and skinny; an individual such as myself towered over the tiny frail man. Rounded glasses sat perched on a nose several sizes too big for his face. His balding head was a wild mane of unkempt black hair, the reflection of the artificial light source gleaming on the patch of brown skin atop his head.
He heralded the only woman behind the counter. Much to the dismay of the teenagers she dropped what she was doing; synthesizing their milkshakes. The man shakily pointed to the kiosk, seemingly confused and disoriented, as the woman aided him in assembling his sandwich. I detested the impatience of the teenagers. For I was a man, and a true man knows patience of the hunter reaped the rewards of nourishment.
Completed with his task the man shambled from the kiosk, limping with a single good leg. I made eye contact with him momentarily, and averted my gaze soon after. In the corner of my eye I saw him freeze. For a time, I awaited his departure. However, he did not budge. I could feel his stare.
I returned his gaze. He stared with unblinking eyes, never breaking eye contact. He reached into his pocket with a single shambling hand and removed a case. He opened it, removed his circular glasses, and replaced them with a pair of sunglasses. Absurd I thought! One does not wear sunglasses in a well lit establishment, let alone in the darkness of night and snow. Surely this shambling gentleman was a madman I thought to myself. I could feel my gaze became twisted with rage and madness.
The man spoke. "Video game. Video game are the devil."
I stood dumbstruck. For I did not agree with his opinion. The teenagers stood stunned, aggravated at the man's words. While I and the teenagers had had our differences in the past, I came to the conclusion that they too were shocked and appalled. And would surely be my allies. Suddenly my mind began to twist into madness. My mind could not grasp the invalid logic of his statement. Video game was not the devil. My rage could be contained no longer.
I could hear my sandwich being called, though I did not care. There would be a time for my feast, yet as of now it was not of the hour. I unbuckled my trousers, staring enraged at the man as my pants fell to my ankles. I shimmied over to the man, surely a menacing sight for him to behold. I would show him the meaning of fear. Raising my arms to the sky as if shaking the heavens themselves I roared a mighty battle cry as a torrent of fecal matter evacuated my bowels.
"Video games are not the devil!" I boomed.
The man smiled. I could feel his madness gripping my mind as if it was a knife to my throat. I struggled, slamming into racks of chips and snacks as his power overcame me. "I will not be defeated!" I screamed vainly. I collapsed to my knees, roaring a deafening cry of defeat. His voice rang in my head. Repeatedly. Again and again it repeated to me.
"Video game. Video game are the devil."
I then ate my sandwich in the back of a police car. I did not suffer the loss of this day; for I would have my revenge.