“I sought professional help” p.1.


Our protagonist received a phone call while riding his bike over the Hennepin Avenue bridge, how great it is to answer the phone while biking-dangerous and fun.

Narrator:  Here is how it started, Our Protagonist riding a bike across a busy bridge reaches into his pocket to locate a vibrating cellular phone.  He answers, “Hello?”

Teddy:  I thought this conversation would end in my bed, it ended making me feel like an asshole and someone else ended up crying.  I thought I was going to get arrested or worse.  I was more so confused.  I felt stalked and followed.   Well, imagine, if you can, someone else was surprisingly confused, not the Narrator, or the Author, the Protagonist was confused, me.  It was slightly cold out.  I had not bundled up proper.

Narrator:  While biking from home to work, after skipping class the Protagonist, lets call him Teddy, was biking north, or rather NE to work his new job.  His new job you ask, is the best job ever and will not be discussed here within.

Narrator:  The phone call came in, the name that read on the screen was distorted and shortened because every time he deleted and resaved the number he changed the name in hopes of starting this relationship anew.  Boom.  This did not work.  The clouds were dark over the bridge, the water was relatively calm below with starts of white-caps from the wind.  The sandstone colored bridge, with its green cables relaxed and went taught again as cars, bikes, and trucks clamored over it’s being.  The call was quick and to the point.

Dam:  Where are you?  Meet me at school when you are free.

Teddy:  I’ll be there at 4 PM.  I thought it would end well.  I was wrong.

Narrator:  The Protagonist was wrong and the Author is “schizophrenic, or at best delusional, mixing real-life with fiction” and such, apparently “losing himself in his work”.  Thanks for that one Fight, you gave up so easy, as they do.  What a bore.  Come to think, one must come to think, or not think to come at all.  Low blows and all aside, it’s a good aside.

Narrator:  Work was great, mostly da da da, blah, blah, blah, and such.

Teddy:  I had a meal and jumped back on my single-speed Vintage blue Trek 400 series.  I had a brown bag with work clothes in it, a backpack on my back with books that had procrastinate written all over them, and the smoothest leather dress shoes one would ever see perched on metal bike pedals, polished to the heel.  I biked the same route I took on the way there, just in the opposite direction.  I called, sat on a bench, received a call, had a cigarette, and got a call back again.  I was told to come inside to meet in a public location.  I thought this confusing because they would rather have met anywhere else a month or so back.  I sat and took note of my surroundings: A woman with a little girl inside, sad, tears in her eyes, a few men, and a security guard.

Protagonist:  I guess she wanted to be friends.

Author:  I typically don’t meet people where they say they want to meet because ever since I have started writing I feel like I am being followed.  So I would not have done this.  This story would not have been what I would have done.

Teddy:  I sat.  I asked her what she wanted and she told me she had sought professional help, sort of legal advice on what she could do about a post I threw up a few months ago.

Narrator:  Now this protagonist he has a blog and he is pretty much in control of it; no one else edits, writes, or composes anything for him, he does it all on his own.  Unpaid, sort of, with no compensation.  He has readers and his own stories.  This Protagonist called bullshit.

Teddy:  What you want money?  I have money, but you cannot have it.  I am a trust fund child and I will keep it all, you bitch!  Move on.

Dam:  The pictures have to come down, the story was a blatant threat.  Tires of bikes, lesbian violence and all.

Narrator:  she also said, the writing was very invasive and it was obvious, without names who it was about.

Teddy:  I explained it was not obvious.  I explained that Mr. Tucker Max had told me in one of his books, and on Wikipedia, that I have the right to write about whatever I would like to as long as it does not hurt someone or really defame them in a certain way; moreover, I had not used names, or pictures that I did not own the rights to.  I sort of laughed, yet I took into account the security guard lurking and the male sitting behind the woman sitting directly in front of where I sat was listening to our conversation more intently.  Fortunately, I know the sort of guy this woman hangs around with so I played the victim instead of the fool.  I had to go, I had to leave.  She wanted to be friends.  I told her I wanted nothing to do with it, erase my number.  I cannot be friends with apathy, crazy, or recklessness because I will become that.  Word of advice.

Author:  Crazy makes crazy.  Learn it.

Narrator:  The protagonist got up from his chair, bid her adieu, and strode off, but before leaving he noticed more tears, more security, and the listening male getting up and walking towards where he had been.

Narrator:  The walk home was cold and heavy.  There were a few calls and then silence.  Work was good for the Protagonist that day and nothing else had happened.

Author:  See where I am coming from?  Little Red Riding Hood and a Pack of Wolves.


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1/191-4788099-1818040?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=terry+scott+niebeling
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