As though it knew of my presence, the white park bench embraced both me and the snow. I stretched slowly, yawning, taking a content appraisal of my surroundings. Covered in newspapers that crinkled and floated off me banally, as though all was suddenly well, I simply stood up as the snow caressed my face. Why was the park bench white? It seemed odd.
Toddling off in that general direction, I found tragic panoply of a winter’s scene. There were four young guys. Three of them lined up to one side on my right, and the dude to my left was clearly the leader. He…had a rather menacing looking long knife in one hand, and was threatening “the girl” with it. She was simply standing there, laughing, held in another’s arms. The leader started tossing his knife from one hand to the other ever so lightly. I was watching, and clearly looked intrigued, like I rather enjoyed the sight — to fool them.
She was laughing merrily, lines of drug tracks on her arms, and was “grabbing the strawberry” like crazy. That means she was enjoying her last moments. Guy was going to slice and dice her. I thought, hey, it’s my turn. I am, after all, Marsha Larts! Don’t I hate all such rippings? Maybe I shouldn’t…what is — caring? Isn’t it what Christmas is all about, I thought squeamishly?
I was standing, and had a touch of my former disability, which involved turning left. Patting my head with the flat of my hand, I discovered my handicap had rather abated, which was a nice feeling, and I heard a female scream to my immediate right. It echoed around in my head like a narcissistic wail of mistaken ecstasy.