12
Jack ambled in a slow jog along the most poorly lit paths in Central Park. He made a point of cutting through dark groves of naked trees as he moved between paths, hoping—praying—someone would make a move on him.
God, he needed to let loose on somebody. It would feel sooo good to fire his rage laser and crisp some asshole.
But something about him must have sent out warning signals, because no one bothered him. No one even spoke to him.
Figured. You could never find a dirtbag when you needed one.
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