Like a starving hawk, I perched within my pine fortress. Nothing would escape the scope of my gaze. The inevitable growl and rumble of the Trashtank began to tug at my ears as its soldiers worked their terrible work steadily down my street. As they drew closer to my home, I remembered my life as a good and complete existence with no regrets. Today would be a good day to die, if it came to it.
They, and the moment, had arrived. The enemy predictably and unwisely exited the safety of his vehicle, completely unaware of his fate. His uniform read "Frank", but to my eyes he was merely a nameless, faceless thrall in the employ of the enemy. Gathering my robe and senses about me, I began the assault. Armed only with flecks of this morning's cereal in my beard, a newspaper, and my lucky boxers, my attack was swift. Leaping... No, GLIDING down to meet him, our deadly dance had commenced. Resolute, I stood before him, pointing only to the pile of trash I had placed by my curb as bait.
He had the gall to sneer at me while looking from the bait, to the tank, to the bait.
"Pick it up," I ordered. His sneer and resolve began to visibly waver as he heard the authority in my command. Like the obedient cur he was, the enemy gathered the parcels and tossed them into the gaping maw of his terrible contraption. "Leave this place, only to return in the morning every Monday and Thursday. It is my wish! You would do well not to incur my wrath or that of my people.”
Head lowered and legs quaking in absolute defeat, he retreated to the safety of his comrades seated within their engine of refuse. They left, and I was the one left standing.
I had seen the fear in their eyes. The cowards had neither a word nor whimper for me. I had won this day. The battle, while over, only serves to remind that the war is not yet complete. My friends, never forget the true meaning of Trash Day. Never forget for what we've fought!
