The Unfortunate Roadster Incident

Hank "The VIKING" Hauser raced down the streets of New YORK in his OPULENT sports car. Sure, it had been a FRIVOLOUS expense, but it's not like he couldn't afford it. Besides, he KIND of enjoyed the looks he got driving such a rare automobile. His friends called him a NINCOMPOOP for spending so much money, but they just didn't understand true luxury... everything from the XENON headlights to the HERALDIC emblem on the hood were top of the line. No expense was spared; he had paid a GENEROUS amount for the car, but in his opinion, it was money well spent. Someone far more SAGACIOUS than he once said that you can't take your money with you when you die, so you might as well enjoy it while you're alive.

The day was COLD and DREARY, but that didn't stop Hank from driving with the top down. Being seen in it was the whole point of driving the car. He sped through the city, his AGGRESSIVE driving style forcing many other cars and cabs to make way for the ZINC-colored roadster.

Hank pulled up outside the restaurant and tossed his keys to valet waiting at the curb in UNIFORM. The valet held out an EXPECTANT hand and Hank slapped it away, not feeling particularly BENEVOLENT today. He strolled into the restaurant, leaving the valet looking at his empty hand, then at Hank, MALICE burning in his eyes.

An hour later, Hank emerged from the restaurant, satisfied with the incredibly TENDER steak filet he had just devoured... even if the waitress was a WITCH. He waited and waited, but the valet didn't appear. With a QUIZZICAL expression on his face, Hank moved a few steps down the street. As he looked down the alley, his countenance contorted in the most PECULIAR way. Something of a cross between shock and rage registered as he saw the valet and his cohorts exchanging JOCULAR high-fives and defacing the car with LURID streaks of fluorescent spray paint. They were IGNORANT of his presence.

Hank let out a ferocious roar, the fearsome sound that earned him his reputation on the playing field. He charged them like a frenzied RHINO as they scattered.

By the time he reached his traumatized car, it was too late. They were long gone and his baby was horribly scarred.

It was there, standing in the alley, that The Viking learned the value of a $2 tip.


(406 words)