Samson was fucked.
Ankle deep in thick mud, his t-shirt, jeans and even underwear were soaking wet, all thanks to the remorseless grey clouds spewing down their cold, cruel, bullets of rain.
And the ominous rumble of thunder served as a reminder that he was ideal target practice for lightning bolts.
But Samson grinned, staring at the solid structure of the library’s clocktower off in the distance. He was going to return the library book in his backpack on time.
For if Samson had to be honest, he was a lazy bugger, procrastination was his master, and sloth was his one defining trait. He didn’t want this to be the case but in truth he was the proverbial scorpion on the frog’s back. Sloth was pure instinct to him.
One day he’d punch procrastination right in its stupid face, then smash sloth into a million pieces. He heard of men waking up at six then working tirelessly until midnight and goddamn it he wanted to be that type of guy.
No more video games, no more Netflix, no more falling asleep on the sofa. His free time was to be spent at the gym and reading books, yes sir.
Hench his borrowing “The Essential Works of Franz Kafka”, from the library because Dad had assured him, this late Czech writer was fucking-a.
But alas Kalfa sat unread on Samson’s bedroom floor for a whole month whilst he played “Super Mario Odyssey” for the billionth time.
Beating himself up as the due date loomed, Samson vowed at least to return the book in a prompt manner. How often had he been fined for late fees? He’d change his slothful ways, damn it!
So, taking the quickest route to the library via Landfield Common, Samson congratulated himself on this ingenious short cut. Only when he was halfway across the park and having no shelter to shudder under, did the rainclouds gleefully empty their load over him.
And now, soaked to the bone, with his nose, lips and arms feeling numb, Samson grinned and knew he wasn’t going to yield. Not a chance.
But as he pulled his ankles out of the thick mud, he screamed in sheer pain. For in that pool of mud there lurked a broken wine bottle which had decided to slice through the sole of Samson’s right shoe, stabbing his tender flesh. Samson fell onto his side, clutched his singeing foot, but forced himself to laugh and said, “I’m not giving up, you hear me?!”
So, hopping and limping across that miserable common, as the storm reigned mockingly around him, Samson at last cleared the park, travelled snail like through a few streets before finally creeping up the cragged steps of the central library. He stood in front of the wide oak doors and cursed the sign out front, informing patrons that the library was closed Monday.
Samson then curled up into a shivering foetal position as the twin gods of Sloth and Procrastination laughed at him.
