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  • Writer's pictureWJ King


I was right about Harold. Harold was a thief, chiseler and all around blackguard. Harold had never met anyone he wouldn’t rob or otherwise compromise to his advantage or glee. His acts of deviltry at the mall one morning included stealing first, a bottle of Baileys Chocolate liqueur, a half full baby bottle of warm milk, from a baby in it’s carriage, pouring the Bailey’s and milk together and walking out of the mall. Probably worth mentioning, he stole a blind woman’s white cane and sunglasses , turned him around three and a half times and left, sipping on his ‘El Chocolato Supreme’ as he called it.

Harold was not one, people would automatically take a shine to. Well, I guess the way to put it is, Harold lacked some interpersonal skills… Everyone hated Harold and wished he was dead. As a boy, his counsellor from reform school was returning him to class after a suspension and he pushed her not so covertly into a snowbank and laughed at her plight. To his credit, he threw the exact bus fare into the snowbank for her to dig out. He reported to the vice-principal’s office and reported his escort deceased and challenged the school administrator to prove she wasn’t. The trembling man shared his condolences with Harold and his girlfriend who had tagged along and was on Harold’s lap nuzzled up in the crook of his neck. Sitting cross legged with thighs revealed to her waist, only added to the administrator’s anxiety.

Some of the school staff suspected Harold had exceeded the legal age making highschool mandatory but everyone lacked the temerity to ask him. The elders of the educational development of young minds, could only remember he was dropped off years ago by a motorcycle gang . The only discrepancy was whether there were thirty eight or forty bikers.

In any tales of a blackhearted ne’er do well, there is always at least the slightest sliver of redemption in their soul. Not in this case. The rules were simple ones;Harold was not permitted to be near small animals, underage pachyderms, sharp objects and the like.

Sadly or not, Harold met his demise one evening sitting in the street, mesmerized by the flys as he pulled their wings off. He was run over, initially by a cement truck and subsequently a beer truck, well suffice to say the line of vehicles went around the corner.

Today, any horrendous event or something that could only be crafted by Lucifer himself is referred to as being a ‘Harold’ or committing a ‘Harold.’ In further honor of Harold, there is one day a year, his model of social interaction is emulated and males urinate on female’s’ legs they’ve chosen to be theirs. Small tribute for old Harold. I was right about Harold.


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