Went to my friend Rob’s house the other day, not expecting to have an encounter with a dimensional vortex. Oh well, guess there’s a first time for everything.
Anyway, there we were, me, Rob, and a number of our compadres, hanging out at the aforementioned dwelling, just generally wasting time in the typical high-school fashion. Eventually, one of us saw the fencing sword in the corner of the room (don’t ask, Rob’s a bit odd), and in the typical teenage fashion, picked it up and began swinging it wildly. Following the norm even more, this launched into a large battle involving sticks, hands, and stuff along those lines. Nobody getting hurt, but a spectacle nonetheless.
I, being the only person without a beating stick handy, was singled out, and persued through the house, out the back door. Sure, they thought they had me cornered, but they didn’t take into account my brilliant tactical mind. Seeing a discarded Super Soaker X3 from Rob and I’s glory days of elementary school, I found a secluded spot, filled up the gun, waited for my attackers to come around the corner, and soaked the living shit out of em.
No. Not soaked. Super Soaked.
Soon, however, they countered with an even more ingenious plan.
They locked me out of the house.
After that, a bitter guerilla war was launched, me versus the rest of em, where they were trying to disarm me, and I was trying to get back into the house. During one of many campaigns, I was almost captured when one of my friends tackled me. However, I managed to escape. Only problem? They had my shoe.
Taking it back to their fortress of evil, they threatened to do all sorts of cruel, nasty stuff to it. But hey, this was war. I trusted that my shoe would give no more than its name, rank, and serial number, and carried on. Eventually, I launched an assault worthy of D-Day, and managed to gain access to the house, thus winning the war.
But victory was not without its price. Later, when I had to go home, I realized that, wait a second, I still didn’t have a shoe, and, wait a second, no one remembered where they put my shoe. A search ensued, for literally a half hour, which came up negative in the shoe department, and caused me to be quite late. Finally, my father called, a bit irritated, and told me that, shoe or not, I was getting my ass home.
So, away I walked, one shoe on, down the pavement, trying to avoid the looks of passing people.
I’ve come to the conclusion that my life is really weird.
