Spare Change: Part 1.

I was just standing around thinking about awesome stuff the other day and this thought popped into my head pertaining to baddies. I'm not talking about villains or people you know and hate for reasons legitimate, I'm talking about REAL baddies.

REAL baddies: A grown or growing adult permitted by the state and it's various laws and sanctions to stop me at any point in time during my travels and ask me for money, blood, semen, more money, my soul or participation in a survey. REAL baddies are unlike homeless people in both appearance and the way that they are sponsored by a collective and given actual incentives to pester me for my income or bodily fluids instead of working purely on commission, like homeless people. REAL baddies are professional beggars for hire who will stop at nothing to strip you of your right to walk anywhere for their own financial gain. They are the real life manifestation of Lucifer himself. They do not care about the cause they are promoting.

You've all encountered one at one or more stages of your lives. Blood donations, deaf appreciation societies, disability recognition, war widow organisations, heart foundations, seeing eye dog chew toy sponsorship, chew toy repair monthly installment plans, World Vision. If it exists, there is someone out there asking you to come out of pocket for it and if you aren't quick enough you'll soon find that your entire weekly wage is paying for new hearing aids for disabled war widows with bad hearts and unsatisfied seeing eye dogs that live in third world countries. Not that there's anything wrong with that. There is so much wrong with that.

Having dealt with real baddies for most of my life (I recall being stripped of my first ever pocket money by a clown with balloons disguised as a member of Telethon, the distribution of balloons a noticeable absence from the transaction) and have gained what some mortals would refer to as a 'seventh sense' for dealing with these snakes in the grass. You can't just walk past them, they'll follow you to the ends of the earth. You can't iDeny them with your headphones, they'll shout, knowing damn well that you can hear them and making you feel like a human stain for not hearing them out. Cross the road? Congratulations, there's more on the other side. I once tried to cross the road after seeing a band of Greenpeace beggars in my path and one of them signaled to a female one and she actually crossed the road and followed me. She was stocky in appearance, her bulging leg muscles a testament to how long she'd been in the begging business.

"Trying to avoid me were you?"

I threw everything I had at her, my kids were in the car, I only had a five minute lunch break, i'm on my way to visit a dying relative, i already work for Greenpeace, i'm deaf and can't hear you. My words bounced off her like Nerf darts on a Challenger 2 battle tank.

"Do you know about Greenpeace?" she casually queried.

I spun quickly and directed a roundhouse sweep towards her shins, she jumped as it rushed past her lower body, leaving me open for a response of the left jab nature. Greenpeace had trained her well, this was not going to be a simple transaction. As i repositioned myself in wake of the roundhouse, I saw a split second window to dodge the fierce left, it's slipstream brushing the right of my face with the speed of an endangered Asiatic Cheetah. In the midst of her attempt I took advantage of her vulnerability, not to launch a second attack, but to locate a point of weakness. As I scanned her short, generous figure I noticed a small cylindrical object cradled under her right arm akin to an emptied out Golden Circle peach slice tin, only covered in pious Greenpeace paraphernalia and slogans in place of Golden Circle's usually approachable imagery. Atop this tin was a small slot fashioned for the deposit of currency no larger than a $2 coin but no smaller than a 10c piece. If i could somehow distract her for long enough i'd have clear view of the tin and a direct shot at her life force.

We were both facing each-other in the middle of the road now, the scene set for our final showdown. A crack of thunder announced an impromptu forecast of rain, lightning and an epic metal soundtrack that was completely necessary. As tumbleweeds rushed past us through fear of becoming caught in the onslaught, Greenpeace lady casually asked me "Do you know the story of the endangered white collared lemur?". Before i could even muster up a thought-provoking response, our swords clashed in an explosion of sparks and sharp sound effects. We had swords now and it was epic. We both jumped back, separated now by two metres of cold, wet tarmac and endless sheets of face-melting sideways rain. We were now strafing to our respective rights and lefts in a circle of instinct and longing for upper hand as I serenaded her with a riddle of my own.

"Do you know the story of not stopping me in the street and asking me for money?".

A powerful wail of the guitar punctuated my statement more than any exclamation mark could ever hope. My words of truth penetrated her shield of denial, sparking blind rage and the fury of a thousand Peter Garretts. Another clap of thunder triggered what would be her final attempt at my demise, her vision clouded by the A-game i had brought to the table on this particular day. As she viciously and carelessly swiped at my being I timed a perfect left roll and before she could even say "dreadlocks" i was on one knee ducking, directing a barrage of currency missiles towards the silo that was her coin tin with unfathomable accuracy. As the coins penetrated the sharp metal mouth of the stronghold, her gun fell to the floor (she had a gun as well), the skies cleared, the guitars faded and the eternal struggle between extinct animals and my weekly income had been dissolved for the time being.

Don't you hate it when people ask you for money?