Boutiques and coffee shops to the right of him, parked cars to the left—up in front, people screaming and darting every which way. Hopefully, none of their flailing bodies would leave a dent on his hood...
He ran into them one by one, and in the end, all at once. Hit them like bowling pins and they went flying off the sidewalk, thusly, like bowling pins. These people who had better things to do with their lives than follow through with medical exams and burden their families with funeral expenses. Yet here they were, spilling left and right while Ted found a direct route to his favorite ice cream shop—boutiques and coffee shops to the right of him, parked cars to the left—up in front, people screaming and darting every which way. Hopefully, none of their flailing bodies would leave a dent on his hood. If they did, he’d write an angry letter to the mayor insisting that ALL ice cream shops in the city should have a drive-through. Forcing citizens to drive around looking for parking just to get a double scoop of caramel fudgy chunk was not an efficient way to run a city. And to think he’d have to worry about dents and cracks in his windshield if he wanted to make it home in time for the game. Red ink—with lots of exclamation points, first thing Monday morning on his desk—that's what he'd get.
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