He was barely cloaked for this sort of weather, and he was miserable. It was rain versus his stubborn brow and forehead, and damn it, he was going to win. But how can one be victorious in a meaningless battle? Especially if the enemy is unaware of being the enemy. For all anyone knew, the rain was merely parallel playing. It’s not like weather has logical emotional patterns. It is no-nonsense, matter-of-fact, straight-up science. Meteorology to be more exact.
He forced a smile as he passed a mixed couple. It was actually painful, a small bruise was forming where the dimple would be if he had one. In fact, behind his back, unbeknownst to him, they called him Fred Skinflintstone. Actually, it has nothing to do with his stoic facial features, but more because of his cheapskatedness. He was a known tight miser. He was Scroogier than the proverbial beet. A coincidental side note: his Christian name was Frederick Albert Skinner Jr. and if you caught him in the right light, he sure as the nose on your face looked like Fred freaking Flintstone.
He was on a mission. Just to prove it, he stepped under an awning and pulled out a folded piece of yellow paper. It said: My Bucket List 1. Mail a letter 2. Try Beef Tongue 3. Find out what people say behind your back. His handwriting was barely organized chicken scratches, not pretty, ugly enough that you could imagine a weird accompanying stench. He bundled up as best as he could, and returned to his personal battle.
He walked up to a very old mailbox. It creaked and wheezed as it opened. He dropped a letter addressed to his recently deceased father. As he walked back, he had cracked a genuine smile. It sounded like the turn of a ratchet. It hurt like mad, but for the first time in a long time, he beat the rain. Fred 3, Rain 62.
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