I don't own Artemis Fowl, or this homeless kid.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
So I slipped on a banana peel. Stop the presses. I wiped the small amount of blood off my forehead. I almost laughed. Figure, the first time I've bled today, and it's like a cartoon. Figure.
I'm hardly that meek. Which is probably why I don't inherit. Or maybe it's because I don't have any relatives. I don't know.
Well what I do like is books. Yes, books are the only way I can escape from this society-dominated world into a fantasy world all my own. Or at least I share it with less of the population than I do the actual world. I don't know.
Well I've always thought of my intellect as surplus. Retards call me dumb, and geniuses call me negligent. Normal people usually sleep in.
So naturally, I like the smart books. The Babysitter's club really, really, really appalls me. Honestly, I'm more intrigued by Tom Clancy, and that's saying something.
I tend to appeal to Artemis Fowl. He always ends up winning. That's the kind of life that I definitely want. In fact, now that I think about it, it's the only thing that I really want, or have ever wanted.
Sure, the books that I mine out of the dumpsters usually have a few pages torn out, and the books that I steal generally get me into trouble. Oh well; when life gives you lemons, steal a Diet Pepsi.
I've never been sad. Ever. My parents were killed before I was born. The doctor explained something, but it's all hazy now. Once in a while I look at these posh, fat women with their albino Yorkshire Terriers and their personal chauffeurs, and I think, God, sucks to be them.
Once in a while I steal their purses, but whatever.
Anyway, I was still bleeding. I walked up to a generous-looking gentleman.
"Sir, do you have." He didn't let me say 'any tissues'.
"Get a job, you lazy concotion of the lowest pits of hell," he said. Maybe he didn't know about child labor laws, but for a pain in the poop chute, he did have a good vocabulary. I acquainted him with my knuckles.
Unfortunately, the cops were eating donuts at the corner malt shop. They ran/waddled as heroically as they could out of the shop and dove right at the chance to repeatedly thump me with their nightsticks. Still, there was no sadness. But there was a feeling. Regret. The over-paid cretins continued whacking me until they realized that I couldn't move. Honestly, cops are the stupidest people on the planet. All they do is take people down, they don't even care that they are provoked.
"What's your name kid?" inquired one of the hideous beings.
"Who wants to know?" I groaned.
"I do," the other hideous being growled.
"Fine then. Just don't immobilize me anymore."
"Well kid! What is it?"
"Dustin Shannon."
So I slipped on a banana peel. Stop the presses. I wiped the small amount of blood off my forehead. I almost laughed. Figure, the first time I've bled today, and it's like a cartoon. Figure.
I'm hardly that meek. Which is probably why I don't inherit. Or maybe it's because I don't have any relatives. I don't know.
Well what I do like is books. Yes, books are the only way I can escape from this society-dominated world into a fantasy world all my own. Or at least I share it with less of the population than I do the actual world. I don't know.
Well I've always thought of my intellect as surplus. Retards call me dumb, and geniuses call me negligent. Normal people usually sleep in.
So naturally, I like the smart books. The Babysitter's club really, really, really appalls me. Honestly, I'm more intrigued by Tom Clancy, and that's saying something.
I tend to appeal to Artemis Fowl. He always ends up winning. That's the kind of life that I definitely want. In fact, now that I think about it, it's the only thing that I really want, or have ever wanted.
Sure, the books that I mine out of the dumpsters usually have a few pages torn out, and the books that I steal generally get me into trouble. Oh well; when life gives you lemons, steal a Diet Pepsi.
I've never been sad. Ever. My parents were killed before I was born. The doctor explained something, but it's all hazy now. Once in a while I look at these posh, fat women with their albino Yorkshire Terriers and their personal chauffeurs, and I think, God, sucks to be them.
Once in a while I steal their purses, but whatever.
Anyway, I was still bleeding. I walked up to a generous-looking gentleman.
"Sir, do you have." He didn't let me say 'any tissues'.
"Get a job, you lazy concotion of the lowest pits of hell," he said. Maybe he didn't know about child labor laws, but for a pain in the poop chute, he did have a good vocabulary. I acquainted him with my knuckles.
Unfortunately, the cops were eating donuts at the corner malt shop. They ran/waddled as heroically as they could out of the shop and dove right at the chance to repeatedly thump me with their nightsticks. Still, there was no sadness. But there was a feeling. Regret. The over-paid cretins continued whacking me until they realized that I couldn't move. Honestly, cops are the stupidest people on the planet. All they do is take people down, they don't even care that they are provoked.
"What's your name kid?" inquired one of the hideous beings.
"Who wants to know?" I groaned.
"I do," the other hideous being growled.
"Fine then. Just don't immobilize me anymore."
"Well kid! What is it?"
"Dustin Shannon."