Write a short story in which you are the villain.

{PROMPT: Write a short story in which you are the villain.}  


I might not have a house, or a bed to sleep in, or money for my breakfast tomorrow morning, but ooooooh boy do I have an excellent routine. That’s really what counts in life, right? The ability to discipline yourself to stick to the schedule you choose for yourself? In a lot of ways, I’m far better off than a lot of people are.

I mean, you could set your fancy grandfather clock by me. That’s how consistent I am.

At 10:13 p.m. every night I’m waiting at a downtown bus stop for my bus.

At 10:16, I’m dropping my bus fare into the box, and then it’s time for a little snoozle mcdoozle until I need to switch busses. 

At 11:27, I step off the bus into streets of golden lamplight.

The suburbs. A different world.

The houses have space between them, and I can smell all these wholesome smells—laundry and shampoo and damp earth and sometimes lingering notes of barbecue.

I walk a different direction each night, tugging on my gloves as I begin my journey.

It always amazes me how many people forget to lock their cars.

I shake my head to myself as I find one unlocked. Careless people. They should be more like me. I’d never be careless like that. If only they’d make locking their car a habit. It’s not that hard. Just attach it to something you’re already doing. Maybe after you brush your teeth, you hit the lock button on your key fob just to make sure the car is locked before you go to bed. That’s all it would take.

I find a five-dollar bill curled in a cup holder and stick it in my pocket.

“Helloooo, junior chickens,” I think to myself gleefully.

A few more cars, and I’m satisfied.

I don’t feel guilty. It’s their fault for leaving their cars unlocked. Besides, me and my friends—we need this money more than they do.

I begin the long walk back downtown.

I walk on the trail by the lake, and I’m far from alone out here.

The occasional coyote, the occasional couple, the occasional fellow homeless person.  

I sleep for a few hours on a bench and rise before the sun to continue my journey.

A jogger runs past me. I see this one five days a week.

I nod cordially at her.

“You and me, we’re the same,” I say to myself after she has passed. “We understand self-discipline.” I chuckle as a thought dawns on me. “Actually, we’re not quite the same. You run for yourself. I, on the other hand—” I pause to pat my pocket. “I do this to help others. I hate to say it, but I guess I’m better than you are!” I chuckle.

By 8:30 a.m., I’m back downtown and I use some of the money from the unlocked cars to purchase two trays of coffee and some muffins from McDonalds. I walk around and hand them out to my friends.

At 12:30, I buy a bunch of junior chickens to deliver. I make my rounds, and plop down on a bench beside my friend Andy as I pull the last two out of the bag.

“Come on, man,” he says as he unwraps the sandwich. “Why does it got to be a junior chicken every single day?”

“It’s the perfect food, Andy,” I say as I take a bite. “You got your protein, you got your greens. It’s all there.”

“Hamburgers are protein too, you know.”

“Red meat is no good for you. Chicken,” I nod, “Chicken is the way to go.”

He shakes his head.

“Mmmm.” I close my eyes and chew. “It’s the perfect food.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Andy concedes.

After I make my supper deliveries, I have a few dollars left over. I use it to purchase a single firecracker.

I’ll set it off tonight over the lake on my walk home.

I want to see the bright explosion reflected in the water of the lake.

I want to feel the loud bang in my body.

I want people to know that I am here, I am brilliant, I am kind, I am thriving, I am strong.

I check my watch.

10:00 p.m.

Time to head to the bus stop.

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