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Viewing Single Post From: The Gadfly Cometh
General Goose
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Don't cast aspersions on my asparagus.
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Bradley never really was one to sit about and ruminate.

But as he knelt down against the concrete wall of the docks, one foot in the path of the ebbing tide, chasing the congregated ants with the flame of his assigned lighter, one could be forgiven for thinking that was what he was doing. Contemplation, meditation, that sort of thing? That was the refuge of the thinker, not the doer, Bradley had always believed. But he couldn't help but engage in it now. As a prerequisite for action, he told himself. He blinked, trying to dislodge the last vestiges of drowsiness from his mind, trying to focus more ardently on the task of thrusting his own terror onto the panicking ants who had made the mistake of making this dock their home.

Bradley had often raised the prospect of some kind of medicinal sleeping aid to help counter his insomnia. But costs and his father's recalcitrance for seeing a doctor for such a "little thing" had meant he could not get a formal diagnosis, let alone actual professional help. That was partially what made the prospect of some over-the-counter kind of sleep-inducing dose quite tantalising. An end to the pain of his poor sleep schedule.

But over time, the thought became more of a joke, something only raised in desperation or in jest, yet another weapon in his irreverent arsenal of self-deprecation. Alcohol and smoking became efficacious yet imperfect substitutes for sleeping pills. Now, Bradley was quite happy his father, for the wrong reasons of course, had seen fit not to indulge his demands. For if the experience of the sleeping gas was representative of sleeping pills, and Bradley could think of no reason why it was not, then it was fucking useless.

Bradley was not well-rested.

Quite the opposite. And these hapless ants were paying the price. The flame danced across them, indiscriminate in collateral damage yet always soaring towards the ant most cognizant of the atrocity being reaped upon them. He chuckled. Ants weren't ethically valuable, weren't capable of deep emotional thought, were basically little automatons, but hell, the fear was just real enough to make this act of wanton cruelty seem daring and taboo.

Bradley chuckled.

He was wasting lighter fluid.

He placed a cigarette between his lips - the terrorists had not taken that smuggled in box away, they were murderers, not health Nazis - and brought the lighter up. Lit the cigarette.

Bradley's relief was audible. "Ah. Fuck. That hits the spot."

The relief of the ants was...less audible, but Bradley was sure it was there.
Edited by General Goose, Aug 25 2016, 04:01 AM.
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The Gadfly Cometh · Docks