Perspective: You're sitting on the shore of a lake, wondering about the things you think normal people wonder about. It's calming. The waves are shallow. Parents with their children paddleboat on a calm meniscus of slightly brownish water. Maybe too brown. The ground below you is not quite sand and not quite dirt, but it's OK. A blue frilled and overly washed beach towel featuring a cartoonish, bikinied lady protects you from getting that all too familiar sand itch inside a bathing suit you never really expected to use in water you're pretty sure is two/thirds fish shit. Life is good.
That's when he finds you.
It's Jean Claude Van Damme. He has a puppy and a look of unbelievable shame written across his face. Did he just get finished fingering that puppy? You don't know, but it would explain a lot. In fact, it explains everything.
You're too afraid to ask, though. All you wanted was a nice relaxing day at the lake. What you got instead was a conundrum man was never meant to answer.
You look again. He's gone. Was he ever really there? You don't know.
Time passes. Life goes on. You get married. Have kids. But in the back of your mind he's always there. In every alley way, in every car that passes you on the highway. Van Damme fingering a puppy is in the face of every person you see.
Eventually, mercifully, you forget about it. Then one night you're walking home from a bar at 2 AM. You hear a noise behind you. You turn. That's when he strikes. He was waiting for you. You never had a chance. The spin kicks and testicle punches are relentless.
That's when you know, and maybe a part of you always knew: Van Damme fingering a puppy was meant to be the last thing you would ever see.
