For the last eight years, Maynard Arthur’s waking hours were thoroughly and constantly overflowing with sheer disgust. So much so that he developed a permanent sneer. Unbeknownst to him, and fortunate for the free world, he owned it. If he had known of his potential strength, he would have certainly abused it. When he looked at anyone the right way, he would practically ghost slap them until they felt shame.
Today found Maynard stuck in traffic, on his way to the Goddamn fucking post office to pick up a package for his baby mama. More than he hated the term “baby mama”, he hated his current predicament. Waiting to get somewhere only to have to wait some more was some sort of profound Sisyphean shit task. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. It did not help one bit.
A friend of his, Mark Tee, to be specific, taught him a method of relieving active stress. This seemed to be a good time to try it. Take a deep breath. Hold it until it hurts. Recite “vola cum laude”, and make a wish. Maynard said, “Vola cum laude, let me be finished with this stupid chore.”
As if by magic, or lucky science, Maynard was whisked thirty minutes into the future. He was transported to a packed county hospital waiting room with a broken fist. His greatest concern, aside from the excruciating pain was I sure as hell hope baby mama’s package is in the car.
He glanced over at the receptionist. She was caught unaware by the “resting face” sneer. She apologized profusely, “We’ll get to you as soon as possible. As you can see, fatal shootings take higher priority.”