The Mission

The fat man trudged down Monroe Street, a long, disintegrating strip of toilet paper stuck to the heel of his left boot. He moved slowly, his large girth hindering any swift or sprightly movements. The rain fell, hard, while thunder echoed from dark clouds and bursts of lightning electrified the otherwise somber late day setting. In the distance, sirens from multiple sources wailed long and low, their respective vehicles advancing in outer directions, away from the heart of the city.

Shades were drawn on the tenement windows and the glow from overhead lights could be seen from some of the third floor apartments. Otherwise, accentuated by the angry storm, the streets were quiet and empty. Forlorn. Duane, the cluelessly obese man, crossed the street against a red light, unconcerned. There was no traffic to warrant either caution or care. His lightweight jacket, soaked through from the rain, clung to his large frame like Saran Wrap enveloping a roasted chicken. He simply did not care.

Before long, the wind started to pick up and Duane felt a chill as the temperature began to fall. The storm’s fury intensified and soon a blast of cold air nearly knocked him off his feet. Duane continued on, moving forward against the fierce gale, sadly determined to see this through. He owed her that much at least.


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