As the bus rumbled away, Bojargis kicked dirt and pebbles in its direction. They did not strike the bus in any meaningful way nor calm his raging furor.
It was only the beautiful sunset of a vision for which Bojargis had made the journey that could calm his screaming heart.
Bojargis strode up to the gate belonging to the house at the address to which he had been shuttled. He rang the buzzer and took a deep breath.
Click. "Mansfield residence, who is it?" a voice emanated forth.
Bojargis replied with some words, at first mumbling and then building to a more confident, composed oration.
Click. The voice replied "I'm sorry sir, it is no longer available".
Bojargis felt certain he had misheard or misunderstood. "What do you mean? I can see it right there." He gestured dumbly. Indeed he could see it just over there, through the gate.
Click. "What I mean to say," the voice explained "is that it's no longer for sale. My boy Gregory has taken a liking to it at perhaps just the last moment and I've decided not to sell. I am a sucker for puppy-dog eyes." A loving chortle was heard through the audio messaging box.
Bojargis was not amused. He considered his options. Perhaps it would have been wise to call in advance before boarding the train on this journey.
He decided to take out a chunk of his frustration on the mailbox affixed to the also-stucco fence. This task was completed hastily and with ease but was of surprisingly little comfort, Bojargis found. He also found defecating in the driveway to be unsatisfactory, messy as the project proved to be. Bystanders watched the onslaught in bewilderment for four minutes.
It was only the beautiful sunset of a vision for which Bojargis had made the journey that could calm his screaming heart.
Bojargis strode up to the gate belonging to the house at the address to which he had been shuttled. He rang the buzzer and took a deep breath.
Click. "Mansfield residence, who is it?" a voice emanated forth.
Bojargis replied with some words, at first mumbling and then building to a more confident, composed oration.
Click. The voice replied "I'm sorry sir, it is no longer available".
Bojargis felt certain he had misheard or misunderstood. "What do you mean? I can see it right there." He gestured dumbly. Indeed he could see it just over there, through the gate.
Click. "What I mean to say," the voice explained "is that it's no longer for sale. My boy Gregory has taken a liking to it at perhaps just the last moment and I've decided not to sell. I am a sucker for puppy-dog eyes." A loving chortle was heard through the audio messaging box.
Bojargis was not amused. He considered his options. Perhaps it would have been wise to call in advance before boarding the train on this journey.
He decided to take out a chunk of his frustration on the mailbox affixed to the also-stucco fence. This task was completed hastily and with ease but was of surprisingly little comfort, Bojargis found. He also found defecating in the driveway to be unsatisfactory, messy as the project proved to be. Bystanders watched the onslaught in bewilderment for four minutes.
