HTB Chronicills - A Good Day

Harold was having a good day. It was only 12:07 AM and he was already wasted. He had started yesterday with a pair of pants, although he couldn't recall where they were, 42 cents, a broken CD of Helen Reddy, The Las Vegas Years, and his trusty rainbow suspenders. That's not much startup capital to work with, but by procuring some top shelf booze for his bottom drawer clientele he had managed to secure himself a small fortune. Small enough to fit neatly into a tiny ziploc baggy. What more could a simple bum ask for? (That's one of those rhetorical question thingies, so shut up).

Harold sat comfortably nodding in and out of hallucination and drug induced stupor on a couch, or maybe it was it a walrus, in his friend's living room. All was well. Yes, all was just fine. He even appreciated the stout pair of flippers his feet had become. Life was good, and then it happened...disaster! 

Disaster like the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. Disaster like the housing collapse of 2007. Disaster like the 1984 cancellation of Alf. 

Fucking Warren walked into the room.

Harold knew that he had to protect his precious payload which had surely attracted Warren like a  vulture to carrion. Warren was just such a creature; the carp of Harold's narcotics. 

Warren casually chatted with the other derelicts scattered haphazardly about the room, but he was focused on the prey nestled precariously in Harold's pocket. Harold had to take decisive action or all would be lost. OK, maybe just half of it, but it's the principle of the thing. As Warren weaved his way through the remains of many flailings, Harold leapt to his feet with all the grace his stout flippers would afford.

Warren was close now, Harold could make out the pepperoni sized scabs on his countenance. It had obviously been a long night for Warren, but this was no time for sympathy. This was white knuckle for brown stuff time. Harold valiantly launched himself over the coffee table and performed a perfect pirouette with a solid landing on one foot and alternate cheek in an unnerving move that Douglas Fairbanks would never consider. Doug was both sane and occasionally sober.

The voracious opiate reducing beast was nearly upon Harold letting out a snarling cry, "Harold, come on now, let's be reasonable about this." The sound sent a shiver up Harold's spine which someone had replaced with a slinky.

Using the spring action employed by tiggers, Harold sprang himself out of harm's way. Scrambling to his flippers, Harold launched himself into the air and careened through the bathroom door parallel to the floor. With all the elegance of a tornado Harold slammed the door as he simultaneously slammed his skull gracefully into the vanity. Harold had always been an expert slammer.

Harold heard a satisfying thud of Warren hitting the other side of the door where there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. But here inside this sanctuary, this refuge, Harold was having a good day.