That man is here again.

            Now, I understand that the tone used when saying something like that generally comes across as rather negative, like the way housewives refer to an unshaven middle-aged male whose eyes that resemble a dead fish’s depict a somewhat questionable character. I also understand that due to this perceived tone, it could be inferred that I may hold a slight personal dislike for this “man” who has come here “again” to perform tasks that may or may not fit his persona. On that note, I would like to make it clear that I do not dislike him at all.

            I hate him. 

            Yes, “hate” is a rather strong word, defined (by me) as disliking someone so much that the word dislike would imply that you like them a lot more than you actually do like them, thus upgrading the status of dislike to a level of higher dislike that cannot be expressed simply as “really dislike” and thus must be thought of as “hate.” Now, I consider hate to be a word that opposes world peace and thus one that should not be used except to describe, well, never mind. 

            Anyway, I hate this man. Why do I hate him? Three reasons:

            1. He (or whoever he’s working with) kidnapped me.

2. For some irrational and/or absolutely infuriating reason, he refuses to talk to me.

            3. He looks like the most boring person I’ve ever met.

            Now since I’ve gone to the trouble of listing this I might as well go through them in order. To begin with, the kidnapping.

            It happened on a bright moonlit night, as the stars shined with a violent light as if to show their displeasure for the travesty that was about to take place. I was in my room, praying for everything good in the world when suddenly, with a loud bang that sounded like the impact of an artillery shell, a…well, artillery shell exploded a few meters away from my house, destroying the horrible excuse of a habitable shelter that my neighbour called his “dream home.”

            At first, I thought my prayers were answered.

            Then I found out the hard way that whoever firing had simply missed, made obvious as another one went down my chimney like Santa Claus on Christmas eve. Luckily, it was a dud.

            Or so I thought, but it turned out to be a flashbang. With a deafening noise that probably knocked cold my parents and brother in the living room, I was left to fend for myself as helicopters began swooping down like flies and soldiers began to storm my house. Armed with only the self-defence techniques I’d learned from my brother and a teddy bear that could be used as a bullet shield (probably), I took stock of my options and decided to jump out the window.

            What ensued was a hectic chase lasting several minutes, stretching down the street and into the shopping district a few blocks away. I ran like the wind in slippers and pyjamas, yelling “HELP BAD MEN ARE CHASING ME!!!” as helicopters and cars tried to manoeuvre their way through the semi-crowded streets, mowing down anyone who was too slow or arrogant to get out of the way. Now that I think about, I don’t even think I would’ve helped myself in that situation.          

Anyway, as athletic as I may be my legs eventually gave out under the strain of full speed running after just ingesting cup noodles. Whether the two are relevant or not is unsure, though the cup had been brooding away in my basement for five years. Whether that’s relevant to its ability to hinder my legs is also unsure, though the soup did kind of taste like fried chicken. Whether that’s relevant to the cup being in my basement for five years is rather questionable, but–

            Getting off-topic. Moving on.

            Unable to keep my legs going, I collapsed in front of an odd store that I had always avoided before. It was a candy shop, and gave off haunted building vibes that were intensified rather than mellowed by the presence of weird-looking multi-coloured lollipops that seemed to take you to another dimension if you stared too long. Seeing where my aimless flight had landed me, I immediately thought “Oh Shit” followed by a serious dilemma on whether I wanted to enter that Godforsaken place or turn back and hope I don’t get run over. In the end, I chose to enter.

            That’s when it got weird. A giant robot burst from the store, followed by a weird girl in a skin-tight suit and a tall guy in glasses calling me the “Chosen One.” Then, I proceeded to realize my destiny and took control of the robot and–

            Okay, I’m completely lying. Truth is I passed out, woke up, and found myself in this windowless apartment with no word from my parents. You can probably tell how much time I have on my hands.