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.