Hey dickhead on the metro,
It isn’t everyday that someone goes fishing in the Place-des-arts metro. In fact, I had yet to ever see it personally. It is an assumption, but I doubt you had seen it before either. Going along with you never seeing it, I bet your date hadn’t seen it before either. “Date” is once again an assumption, but the infant urge you showed trying to impress her leads me to assume as such. She wasn’t even walking that close to you she doesn’t seem into it, you should give up. And stop being an asshole.
The metro- fisherman had cast out four or five cups before you came and ripped down his sinker. His Tim’s cup hook was leaving everyone alone, the fisherman seemed to be versed in the ways of pedestrian traffic; avoiding false bites and attracting generous schools. It could be argued that the fisherman was doing the general public a favour. The needy are mostly seen as blemishes, and on a snowy saturday who wants a pimple? Metro officers usually have to shove and stir the desperate off the platforms, but the fisherman was up and out of the way.
Where did you and your date come from, before you decided to ruin someone’s day? Was it a lunch date, or a shopping trip? Was the service good? I didn’t see any flowers or jewellery boxes, I doubt the day was important. Where did the need to assert such dominance come from? Are you bred from a brood who feels superior? Or is our member just half the length of your index finger, and you’re trying to supplement? I hope they spit in your food.
You scampered down the platform so dainty, dancing along in shined up Oxfords, a neatly fit Arc’teryx windbreaker on your round little belly. So excited to hurt others. Your date (accomplice perhaps?) was nicely done up in a knee length parka, nothing dirty or worn. The Fishermen’s windbreaker hung off of him, and his sweater was crusty. Maybe the cup was to get a new one, so he can look just as smart as you.
Fuck you ripping down his line. Fuck you giggling and dancing like a poison imp, your date smiling along, I hope from shock. I stand behind the Fuck you I shouted as you sauntered down the platform. I wished you had tripped, or stumbled or felt consequence in some way.
When the fisherman came down to find his line, his fury was boiling. The problem is that when a well dressed piece of scum fools around, he drives away. When the wild haired and poorly dressed fisherman reacts, he’s the homeless guy yelling in the subway. The mental case we all look down at our phones to deal with, or solemnly agree when they come yell in your face.
Dear dickhead on the metro,
Keep up the goodwork.