Pool_1

heard, but He had better plans than supplying a thesaurus substitute for poo poo. The first face mask was now filled to capacity with the foamy plasticine spit of a dehydrated mad man. Later, he would relish such meager wetness. But he had given his word. "Your word is what you die for," he thought, "Yup, that could happen. It could happen." Back and forth, up and down, in and out, around and through and hither and yon, endlessly pushing his anger, his anger endlessly pushing him on, as an old black man sat there, peacefully, silently passing the day just watching a college kid withering away like a burning sheet of paper. There were fifty buildings, not counting the sheds nor the bicycle stations which had their own grassy settings. Three hundred trees, mostly small, but with brick work encircling each base. Every single walk had lanterns about six feet apart upjutting from the grass - lousy scum - who put them there!? - pain in the.. - there was thistle planted along the rear of each building where basement windows peered out - protection against intrusion and against trimmers - son of a bitch! - damn! - and there were lots of signs - in the grass - apartment 1A apartment 1B up to Apartment 50F - he thought of just ripping them out, if you don't know even your own apartment.. Half of the apartments had flagstone walkways with grass between each stone - ohhhh mannn - just a little old lady's lawn ... he envisioned her supine with him stamping repeatedly on her throat... when skill and strength gives out, anger can get you through. That's all he had. He was mentally stuffing thistle up her ass and cramming light posts down her throat and whacking her across the head with apartment number signs. By that evening, and many gas refills later, an end was in view, whose or what's unclear. His baked mind had not been without inspiration, though. He cut that lawn short. Really short. Really really short. Thank goodness he had brought tools. Lowered