And it keeps coming...
This leaves me with 3 days. If God is going to rest today, than so will I. I am exhausted. I am receiving soup, but I am still weak. My mid section still pains. I am restricted to light activity only. Fuck that, I have a war to win. Does inter-ethereal war count as light activity? For America perhaps, but for me, no chance.
It is lunch time. I have had soup. I am happy. I am content. I decide to go for a walk. Walking is important after staying in hospital because the lungs become congested from disuse. While I might not be on speaking terms with my bastard child kidneys, I happen to enjoy a mutual friendship with my lungs. Therefore, I will protect them. I will walk.
I walk in the nature reserve often and without incident. Today however, I would encounter God's auxiliary units, from which I would learn one thing.
God still wants local man dead.
I am ten, maybe fifteen minutes into the walk. I'm walking through the big nature reserve near my house. It's pleasant, but the reserve has somewhat of a bad reputation. Today though, I am just happy to enjoy the quiet of nature and the sunshine. The track narrows to a small rock-crossing over the remnants of an eroded creek. One person crosses at a time.
I walk down to the creek. A kid, maybe 17, maybe 18, sits on a BMX in the centre of the crossing. He has acne everywhere and a shit haircut. I was once told bogan's love rust, but inner-city bogans are of a different variety. They like chrome. Anything chrome is the bomb. The shinier, the better. They are Chrome Bogans.
This BMX was shiny. I figured it was stolen. Chrome Bogan's can't afford bikes. That bogans have adapted to ride them is a marvel of evolution unto itself.
"What the fuck do you want."
Yeah, this is going to be pleasant. I tell him to step aside. I add ", kid" to the end of it.
Chrome Bogans don't like to be belittled. They are the Adam and Eve of psycho nurse - all traits inherited.
"Fuck you dickhead."
Chrome Bogan looks at my tee-shirt. He's looking for an add-on to his own insult. He's doing a shit job. My shirt reads "O-week," as in university O-week.
"O-week. What fucking gay shit is that."
I would kill him if I could. Shame I can't. My next move defies logic, and is not one I would take again. I have reason to believe my kidneys had already boarded flights to Fiji at the time of the incident. My brain most likely had detached from my spinal cord; dug a fox-hole, and bunkered down. Wherever the hell the three of them were, they weren't with me at the time. I speak flatly.
"Fucked if I know. But the O reminds me of the face you make when you're sucki-"
I never did get to finish that sentence. Shame. Twas' snappy.
I get king-hit in the back of the head, off-centre by someone I didn't realise was behind me. I go straight to the ground like a dead weight. Chrome Bogan dismounts and kicks me in the upper back. Shit hurts. Agony. White flecks are filling my vision. I don't want to pass out. I feel rustling in my jeans pocket.