Partly fact

[Aardvark]

Parramatta McDonalds be the scene. The hero of the story, me. This is my story, none of you filthy vermin are taking it away from me. This story has no real basis in reality, aside from what really should be done, but won't be done, for various reasons. If you can't figure those reasons out on your own, you're a danger to society and should be locked away from it. If you can figure those reasons out, then good for you, you good little conformist. Why don't you go get married, have 2.3 kids and live the rest of your life in the middle of suburbia, paying your taxes and driving 20 below the limit like a good little citizen. Now, on with the story.

 

This McDonalds be my favourite in Sydney, as it's open 24 hours and is run by a man who is so happy, we're sure he tortures children during his time off, just to balance his own personal karma. Either that or he's on some of the strongest perscribtion medication for depression known to man, without actually being depressive in the first place. People like that really do wonders for customer satisfaction, even if you do get the urge to smack the bastard for being too happy. The food there is standard slop-onna-bun and fried cardboard in cardboard with salt, like is found everywhere, except at 3 bells, when it surpasses ambrosia in taste and texture. If you place your order just as the clock strikes 3, reality itself will distort and warp as it tries to get used to the very idea of tasty maccas. Needless to say, we frequent this particular McDonalds at 3 am, whenever possible. Usually after a night of pool.

 

At this particular time, however, the McDonalds happens to be host to two of my least favourite cars on the road. A WRX and stupidly overriced Civic. If you have to ask why I hate them, drive around Parramatta for a good... 5 minutes or so. You'll hate them, too. As I stare upon these two cars, I tighten my grip on the runic blade I just happen to be carrying beneath my coat. I find myself with this runic blade too much, of late. Possibly because of the constant need to cut out the decay that tears the social fabric apart. But only when it feels the need to roll me for my shoes. My world begins to narrow. My perception limits itself to the parking lot and no further. Soon, I filter the store, the other cars and the people almost completely out of my consciousness. I feel the energy of the universe fill me as I draw my blade. I scream my bloody warcry and charge towards the WRX

 

When I emerged from my trance, I was striding away from the scene. My blade dripping a mixture of petrol, oil and brake fluid. Sirens were blaring in the background. There was shouting everywhere and cars were fleeing the scene. No one was in pursuit. As I continued walking, bits and pieces of the past 15 seconds begin to come back to me. The hiss of suddenly punctured tyres, the tinkle of shattered glass, the satisfying crunch of a horizontally opposed engine collapsing in on itself, all coming back, forming a symphony in my mind. A frenzied blur of blows whittling down the Civic's wing until none remained, before slicing the vehicle cleanly in two. A precise thrust opening the empty chamber of a rusty firearm one of the irate owners produced in the hopes of scaring me off. I smiled. I'd always wanted to do that. Now I had

 

Yes, as I told you, it was fiction. Well, mostly. I hate WRXs. I hate overriced anythings. I believe that anyone who asks to have a spoiler installed on anything should be beaten about the head several times, unless they can come up with a perfectly reasonable explaination for their deisre. But I own no runic blades. Although, I have a lot of soap.And with enough soap, one can blow up just about anything