RETRIBUTION POLICY // ENABLING THE WORST SPECIAL BEHAVIOR, YO: contributing to the downfall of Sparta by exalting the individual, yo #WFT.

the secret sleight that no one knows about including me

One day, I had bad intentions but I was stopped.  I hate that dude, yo.


“What you reading, yo?”, Bilta asks as he pulls a hotdog from his backpack.

“Some leaflet that I found in the street on my walk to the café, yo.”

I sip my coffee; he has a good point and bring up several interesting counter-arguments, yo.

“You aren’t special, Bilta”, I continue speaking as I recline in the chair in the café by the beach, “instead, what you are is–a disaster, yo.  I won’t sugarcoat your deficiences in being an adult, yo; I won’t tell you that you are fine when you are not.  I won’t accept your less then when you are below average.  You can stop taking the easy way and I won’t help.”

“I’m just trying to put mustard on my hotdog, yo”, he replies as he shakes the small glass container, “the last bit is the hardest to get out, yo.  Can you hand me a spoon?”

“I need a fork, yo.”

“I only have these three plastic.spoons”, he replies as he pushes the utensils towards me, “do these help, yo?”

“In a sword fight, a plastic banana offers little protection”, I respond a I sigh, “why must I make this so unambigious so that he doesn’t misunderstand my words, yo–why must I over-simplify a complex idea or theory to spoon-feed him the logic.  I can’t constantly stop everything because he won’t start trying, yo; I can’t pause on everything because he comprehends nothing.  He, one person, is slowing down things for everything; the cog in the wheel or the squeaky chain gets oil and very old when it breaks repeatedly.  If things are cheap, yo; they can be replaced.”

“I got it, yo”, he yells as the small glob of mustard falls onto his hotdog, “the last mustard from the jar, yo.”

“That’s rather unimpressive and mundane a story, yo”, I reply as I roll my eyes, “you had little mystery in the outcome and no doubt in the results of what would happen; it’s like when you tie your shoes.  At the end of the day, you just have two of them on and there is no question to what that looks like or how it happens, yo.”

“I think that you need to add an air of mystery to your life, yo”, responds as he takes a bite, “what you really want to do is start a story and then change it; add a twist to the normal, yo.  Add a new wrinkle to what you think is going to happen to push the reader, and yourself, into the new; the unknown, yo, is simply beyond what you know.  It is trivial, yo.”

“I want another coffee”, he replies as he finishes the hotdog and picks up his taza.

“How the fuck did you get a hot dog into the café-I meant to ask, yo, but got distracted by this witty banter and fun conversation, yo.  I mean–you don’t often see people sneaking hotdogs into cafes; that’s both a feat of ingenuity and a mystery in and amongst itself.”

“I am a master of the mystery, yo.”

“I want another coffee”, I reply as I turn my head to look at the surfers in the water; there’s 11 of them, yo, today in the ice cold waters of the arctic.


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