I jog. It’s clean, sweaty fun. It was a nice day - cool, not too humid and the sun was mercifully behind cloud cover. I was minding my own business. It was a nice day.
Then you showed up.
I ran faster to get away from your dirty clutches, but you made circles around me, taunting me and exploiting my weakness. The few times I took a swing at you, you deftly evaded my hand and went right on pestering me. What kind of robotic, merciless mindset controls your urges, going after this young boy with your dogged persistence? You, sir, are the primest example of the nadir of modern society’s decay.
I picked up the pace again, but you relentlessly kept behind me, matching my labored pace precisely. There was nothing I could do to escape you - you were faster than me and didn’t tire one bit, while I was wheezing from the effort. I was like Alice, running as fast as I can just to maintain the status quo. I slowed down, because I was on the verge of cardiac arrest, and you land a bite on my shoulder. You went too far that time, mister. You disgust me in ways I cannot articulately voice, at least in this forum, and at least without using words that I, being the innocent little bairn that I am, will not employ.
You could have asked me politely for a date - after all, I am an open-minded fellow. You don’t seem that much older than me, and I’m sure this sort of thing is legal, at least in this state. But no. You don’t want me for my witty banter. You don’t want to discuss Kafka over tea. You don’t want me for my personality. You just want my blood. Your singleminded drives pull you to my lean, unspoiled body in hopes that it would satisfy your animal urges, after which you drop me like your other victims. Sir, I would have killed you if I had the chance, but as I said, you dodged my slaps like a master samurai and then returned to your harrying me in your inhuman manner.
I hate you with passion only exceeded by the first instants of the Big Bang. If I find you, I will kill you. It won’t be a fair fight either - I’m bringing in all that I can to help me. Raid, blowguns, flyswatters - the works. You’re going down, Über-Horsefly. I’m kicking butts and taking names, and you’re gonna regret ever laying your dirty proboscis on me, you sick, sick freak.
