A chance encounter
I've been trying to keep something a secret. It's both a knowledge and a man, but it's also neither.
Its name is S'Peejay Dunkler.
I'm not entirely sure that's his real name, but I met him walking my awful, half-dead dog Milo a few weeks ago. He was shambling down my street looking miserably happy; this forced, jagged grin splayed under a pair of jilted, sagging eyes. The kind of face you make in a mirror when you're super bored. He noticed me with a hideous little twitch and made a painfully deliberate effort to get close enough to talk while I made a very obvious pull on the leash of semi-zombified Milo. Unfortunately, since the 'half dead' component of my stinky canine companion seems to rove around his body, three of his four legs gave out at once and he flopped onto the sidewalk smelling like a paper mill and making noises that the fartiest of butts would cringe at.
He opened the line of discussion by ignoring all social graces and diving right at me with his pure, white-hot hatred of summer and the cold he got from it. I tried to shimmy it off as typical Chemical-fueled Belleville stupidity, but he was persistent; pointing out that I had a Blue Merle Australian Shepherd (That being Milo.)
Again, I did the foxtrot of avoidance and claimed that I had to go. I don't like Belleville people, especially the talky ones, and this was the first time that a random black dude had stopped me in the street. Milo remained stationary, however, and much like paper he proceeded to rip and tear out a battalion of profoundly oxygen-defiling farts that made my new unfriend loudly and angrily gag. It was after he spat out some mysteriously off-colour saliva that he pointed out the stitched-on badge on his shirt. It read "S'Peejay D.", in a mottled blue font surrounded by grease stains. Realizing either I was going to face the shiv or introduce myself, I slapped on a foolproofedly friendly fake grin and said I was Simon.
Milo continued to blast out a tasteful plethora of dogfart hategas, driving S'Peejay to start violently coughing. His work completed, my awful old dog creaked onto his spindly old legs and tottered ahead like a greasy, crunchy sausage on toothpicks. I followed him and left S'Peejay, who finished coughing, happily chimed "Wuzza plezza, yo!", waved too much and bolted down the street, sprinting faster than necessary, even for hyperbole runs.
