Never trust a man with a gingerbread house and no shoes.

I feel like this needs to be an addendum to my previous post, as it happened during the same day.

So it's late. Night has fallen. I have hung around with Lester until the mall closed, then rode a million miles of transit back to my neck of the woods. To save some pennies I'd ridden my bike to the station, and so here I was, at 10pm, riding the long sloping uphill ride home.

When out of the bushes extends an arm.

And on the end of that arm, a hand, and on that hand, a gingerbread house.

"HOLY SHIT A GINGERBREAD HOUSE," I declared with elegance and style, breaking rather suddenly.

"Yes," says the man to whom the arm belongs. "...you wanna piece?"

I pedal slowly past the gingerbread house.

My mother always said: Never trust a man with a gingerbread house and no shoes.

And sure enough, this man was not wearing any shoes (though the rest of him was mercifully clothed).

"No," I said, with some regret because I do enjoy a good gingerbread. "I think I'm okay. But thanks."

"Are you sure?" the man says, smiling invitingly and waggling the gingerbread house invitingly. "It's full of LSD."

"Ah," I say. "Yes. I see. That's probably a good reason for me to NOT have any."

He just shrugged, completely apathetic, as I pedalled faster. "Alright," he said with a cheerful wave of his free hand. "Have a nice night!"

Yes. Have a nice night, my LSD gingerbread toting friend.


~The Destroyer.