So I know I said I was working on a few specific things for this blog, but you see now what I've done is gone and started something completely different, and have been working on this instead. I seem to have made a stand alone nugget though which I thought I'd share with you.
This is a small part of a larger story I have dreamt up following the character development of a failing pick up artist. The character is DEFINITELY NOT Julien Blanc, and the fact I have named him Julien is entirely coincidental... However something tells me his detractors may enjoy this piece (I certainly enjoyed writing it). More to follow if people like this...
The death of the pickup artist - Part X
Julien is drunk now and wandering along a Gramercy side walk. As he waits to cross Lexington avenue he spots a stunning girl striding past; her heels striking the pavement with an aggressive percussion.
“Hey, you’re looking good tonight!” He slurs at her.
She ignores him and seems to walk a little faster.
His entitled anger swells.
"Fuck your bitch ass! You should be grateful for the compliment!" He yells, his gaze following her diminishing buttocks as he starts to walk out backwards into the crossing.
He is assuming that since he has already been waiting sooo long for the walk light to change that it must have switched to the walking man by now.
He assumes wrong.
Julien’s experience of being hit by a taxi travelling at high speed can’t really be described as Julien's experience of being hit by a taxi travelling at high speed, because to him it wasn’t really a coherent experience. It all happened too fast, as if he was waking from a dream into a completely different reality. First he was walking backwards into the street and thinking about doing unspeakable things to that disappearing female butt, and then he suddenly realized his legs were experiencing excruciating pain and that his body was moving in unexplained directions and at unexpected velocities. He also had a strong sense that whatever was happening to him he was not in control of the situation.
Julien’s head turned fast enough to see the approaching windscreen and appreciate on some level that he should do something to avert this collision. He even caught a glimpse of the non-plused looking taxi driver, who only looked non-plused because he had not yet fully realised that a real life douchebag was about to come crashing into his taxi. Only seconds earlier this driver had been innocently thinking ‘I feel kind of hungry, maybe I’ll stop for dumplings after... ’, and while having this thought he had continued driving at a steady velocity, observing that traffic in front was still moving fast and that he could probably get through a couple more green lights before he had to brake...
While in mid air Julien’s arm started to move towards the cars bonnet in a futile attempt to fend off this hostile force that had already shattered both his Fibulae and put an ugly fracture through one of his Tibiae. His brain had not yet pieced together the internal sentence that should have read: ‘Shit, I'm getting hit by a taxi!’, but it still had just enough time to comprehend the ineffectiveness of his arms as defensive instruments. That shiny reflective glass window quickly approached his head, filling his whole field of vision with the ghastly reflection of his own face, rapidly getting bigger and bigger as the impact rushed up on him...
Julien’s eyelids shut in awful anticipation of what was to come.
We cut to black accompanied by the sound of breaking glass, squealing brakes, and cursing .
This is neither the end, nor the beginning. Perhaps to be continued?
 The taxi driver was not Asian, he was a Hispanic American who liked dumplings. There is nothing unusual about this, but I’m writing this footnote because I don’t want you assume that the hero of our story is Asian just because of his food choices.
 The cursing was in Spanish.