Caslon Stork, part 1

Imagine, if you will, a man of middle age sitting alone on a park bench feeding pigeons stale bits of bread. A pretty cliche way to start a story, no? Now imagine the same middle age man, sitting on the same park bench, still feeding the same pigeons, but with enough C4 explosives under his sweater-vest to level the entire park and surrounding city scape. Caslon Stork has a god complex. 

You would think that with a name like Caslon Stork, he would have serious depressive issues, when in fact, this is not the case at all. he does not hate his family. Or humanity. Or his life. His father never beat him with a belt or a pillowcase full of bricks. He wasn't bullied in school for being the tubby little loser named Caslon Stork. Caslon Stork has a god complex. 

There is a certain rush to be had by walking around with a charged detonator in the pocket of your pressed slacks. The ability to choose between life and death for hundreds of living beings is enough to speed any pulse. This is not to say that the stale bits of bread that the pigeons were pecking up were soaked in cyanide. Not that he couldn't do that of course, but the bomb gave him enough excitement to leave the birds alive and cooing. 

His tubby fingers scoop around another hand full of crumbs that hit the paved path like the first drops of rain in a spring downpour. He watches the pigeons with calm eyes. His chest sweats against the plastic encasement of his control. 

Caslon Stork has no intention of detonating the bomb today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day. That is, until the hobo comes stumbling by. 

What is it about homelessness that causes people to walk around like the living dead? Are they lame due to malenurishment? Is gangrene devouring their toes? Are they just stoned, or drunk, or both? Anyway, this hobo is a particularly ugly example. The man hasn't had a shower in who knows how long. Nor a shave. Nor a visit to a dentist. 

He comes by, shaking his paper cup in the face of Caslon Stork, ruining his plastic serenity. 

"Help the homeless?" breathes, no, WHEEZES the bum. Caslon Stork smacks the cup from the mans greasy grasp.

"I have nothing for you here. Unless you want to lick the crumbs from the ground." The man gives a startled, baffled guffaw and stumbles away, now empty handed. 

Setting his brown paper sack full of crumbs on the bench next to him, Caslon Stork reaches into the pocket of his trousers and fondles the small but heavy detonation remote with idle determination. 

This was the day that Caslon Stork decided to flip the switch and press the button.