i am bernard
League Member
- Joined
- Jul 3, 2007
- Messages
- 7
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 37
Clifford Hugo was awakened by a car slamming through the wall of his living room.
He jolted from his bed. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he wondered curiously how this could have happened, much like someone would after noticing that they had put on two
different colored socks.
His landlord never told him there was a danger of a sleek late 80’s sports sedan rocketing through his living room, particularly because he failed to see that as a possibility considering Clifford lived on the 20th floor of his apartment complex.
Clifford Hugo approached the car hesitantly, as plaster dust slowly settled on the carpet.
As a newly christened professional wrestler, Clifford had been training for several hours a day for an impressive NFW debut. Shut-eye was sporadic, and after genuinely falling asleep for the first time in two weeks, Hugo was simmering.
He thought it was peculiar that the car was vacant. He walked up to the edge of the battered, gaping wall and looked skyward, as if to check if it were raining cars and a stray droplet managed to obliterate his Laz-E-Boy. It was then that he heard a low, static rumbling below.
“Awooooaahh God there’s a guy up there!” shouted the ant on a megaphone. “Are you okay???”
Clifford peered across the lights dotting the city skyline, blurry spheres of color in the distance.
“Uhhh, yeah, fine.” was his response, in a normal tone.
He had gotten used to this. Inside the ring, Hugo was focused, fierce, and efficient. Outside of it, his life had been a timeline of constant misfortune. This lack of luck only caused him to train and work harder at his career.
Pro wrestling was the only thing that wouldn’t come crashing through his wall at two in the morning.
Hugo took sat down on a stool at his kitchen counter as he heard the megaphone echo in the distance.
“We’re sending some people u---”
Before he could finish the word, the car heaved backwards. Hugo’s guttural groan and reach was in vain as the car slid away from the building and flipped what seemed like slow motion. He rushed towards his hole, which he was beginning to accept as a conscious design addition to his domicile.
By the time he looked down the shrieks were turning to mute and bodies were quickly scurrying away.
But one ant remained.
Hugo's face scrunched like Renee Zelwegger as he looked away and heard the sickening, wet crunch of bones, flesh, and metal. He didn’t bother to look, staggering back into his apartment and collapsing on his bed, his sights on the ceiling.
As the broadside of a fist pounded on his door, it was crystal clear: Clifford Hugo and bad luck were not being mutually exclusive.
He jolted from his bed. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he wondered curiously how this could have happened, much like someone would after noticing that they had put on two
different colored socks.
His landlord never told him there was a danger of a sleek late 80’s sports sedan rocketing through his living room, particularly because he failed to see that as a possibility considering Clifford lived on the 20th floor of his apartment complex.
Clifford Hugo approached the car hesitantly, as plaster dust slowly settled on the carpet.
As a newly christened professional wrestler, Clifford had been training for several hours a day for an impressive NFW debut. Shut-eye was sporadic, and after genuinely falling asleep for the first time in two weeks, Hugo was simmering.
He thought it was peculiar that the car was vacant. He walked up to the edge of the battered, gaping wall and looked skyward, as if to check if it were raining cars and a stray droplet managed to obliterate his Laz-E-Boy. It was then that he heard a low, static rumbling below.
“Awooooaahh God there’s a guy up there!” shouted the ant on a megaphone. “Are you okay???”
Clifford peered across the lights dotting the city skyline, blurry spheres of color in the distance.
“Uhhh, yeah, fine.” was his response, in a normal tone.
He had gotten used to this. Inside the ring, Hugo was focused, fierce, and efficient. Outside of it, his life had been a timeline of constant misfortune. This lack of luck only caused him to train and work harder at his career.
Pro wrestling was the only thing that wouldn’t come crashing through his wall at two in the morning.
Hugo took sat down on a stool at his kitchen counter as he heard the megaphone echo in the distance.
“We’re sending some people u---”
Before he could finish the word, the car heaved backwards. Hugo’s guttural groan and reach was in vain as the car slid away from the building and flipped what seemed like slow motion. He rushed towards his hole, which he was beginning to accept as a conscious design addition to his domicile.
By the time he looked down the shrieks were turning to mute and bodies were quickly scurrying away.
But one ant remained.
Hugo's face scrunched like Renee Zelwegger as he looked away and heard the sickening, wet crunch of bones, flesh, and metal. He didn’t bother to look, staggering back into his apartment and collapsing on his bed, his sights on the ceiling.
As the broadside of a fist pounded on his door, it was crystal clear: Clifford Hugo and bad luck were not being mutually exclusive.
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