It’s him or me.
Deep down, Gary knew this to be true, though he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Some would argue that he could—probably should—avoid the man in the oversized sweatsuit altogether. Easy to say, if you hadn’t experienced the high. But Gary had passed the point of no return long ago, so he stalked the frumpy man who lumbered along this warped boardwalk, greedily guarding his stash.
There was no pretense that the man wasn’t holding. He was openly using, for god’s sake, for Gary and the world to see. Gary appealed to him repeatedly. Eloquently, in his opinion. But the man refused to oblige.
It’s him or me.
In the old days, when this town was thriving, he would have abandoned the selfish asshole after only a moment. There’d been a source on every corner. Everyone offering a free taste. But now… just sweatsuit guy.
Gary approached him with a final plea for compassion. He was embarrassed by the desperation in his voice, but couldn’t help it. The man paused. He held out the bounty, but yanked it back, laughing, “Get lost.”
It’s him or me.
Gary slowly retreated, then pivoted, and made a beeline for the man. He unloaded, and the white glob splatted across the man’s shirt, startling him into dropping the paper cone. Gary, like so many gulls before him, swooped and scooped as many fries as he could. The salty, vinegary potatoes hit his system, and he let the buzz engulf him.