The Fly in the Ointment
The fly in the ointment
He decided to take the subway. He clutched the black suitcase tight, the suitcase that did not belong to him, and walked towards the deep green stairs leading to the underground station. Every step he took down the stairs was like walking – step by step – towards a transportable coffin. Once he arrived inside the subway of a coffin, he found a spot furthest to the left where he could be partly anonymous. Usually, the subway was stuffed with people this time of day, yet, not today. There was a mother with her toddler in her askew and fairly dishevelled perambulator, sleeping carelessly while its mum was talking loudly in her mobile phone. There was a man with a dark suit, hearing music so loud I could hear it through his headphones. There were two boys, each carrying a skateboard of their own, grinning at each other’s jokes and faces and the voids of the eternal universe and their silly skateboards. There were fairly many people, too many to get recognized, and too many to open the suitcase, the suitcase that did not belong to him. Nevertheless, he did it anyway.
He pressed the golden button on the suitcase, the suitcase that did not belong to him, and opened it. Inside were stacks of small, green men, all staring judgmentally at him.
“What do you think you are doing, young man?” Benjamin Franklin asked him abruptly. “What do you mean?” He asked him defensively. “Well we are obviously not yours to take, are we now?” Abraham Lincoln concluded.
“You were supposed to transport us, not take us you thief!” George Washington said repulsively. He was astonished about George Washington’s disdainful behavior.
The subway was a turbulent transport to take, and the suitcase, the suitcase that did not belong to him, jumped up and down in his lap. The people inside this turbulent coffin seemed dead silent, silent like the dead. No mobile, no music no nothing.
“You are a disgrace, boy” Benjamin Franklin stated like it was nothing, “what do you think
He decided to take the subway. He clutched the black suitcase tight, the suitcase that did not belong to him, and walked towards the deep green stairs leading to the underground station. Every step he took down the stairs was like walking – step by step – towards a transportable coffin. Once he arrived inside the subway of a coffin, he found a spot furthest to the left where he could be partly anonymous. Usually, the subway was stuffed with people this time of day, yet, not today. There was a mother with her toddler in her askew and fairly dishevelled perambulator, sleeping carelessly while its mum was talking loudly in her mobile phone. There was a man with a dark suit, hearing music so loud I could hear it through his headphones. There were two boys, each carrying a skateboard of their own, grinning at each other’s jokes and faces and the voids of the eternal universe and their silly skateboards. There were fairly many people, too many to get recognized, and too many to open the suitcase, the suitcase that did not belong to him. Nevertheless, he did it anyway.
He pressed the golden button on the suitcase, the suitcase that did not belong to him, and opened it. Inside were stacks of small, green men, all staring judgmentally at him.
“What do you think you are doing, young man?” Benjamin Franklin asked him abruptly. “What do you mean?” He asked him defensively. “Well we are obviously not yours to take, are we now?” Abraham Lincoln concluded.
“You were supposed to transport us, not take us you thief!” George Washington said repulsively. He was astonished about George Washington’s disdainful behavior.
The subway was a turbulent transport to take, and the suitcase, the suitcase that did not belong to him, jumped up and down in his lap. The people inside this turbulent coffin seemed dead silent, silent like the dead. No mobile, no music no nothing.
“You are a disgrace, boy” Benjamin Franklin stated like it was nothing, “what do you think