A New Day of Treasure Hunting

It was the next afternoon. Tom was dragging his filthy, greasy old bag down the street, scanning the ground for cans and bottles. But luck wasn’t on his side—he hadn’t found much. A faint look of worry crept onto his face. He still didn’t have enough for dinner.

At a street corner, he noticed a small deli store with a few plastic stools out front. Sitting by the entrance was a little kid with his mom. The kid was sipping from a bottle of Pepsi—already more than halfway done. Tom’s eyes lit up. Quietly, he approached, stopping literally one foot away. He stood there silently, eyes fixed on the bottle, waiting patiently for the kid to finish it so he could pick it up.

The kid noticed. His eyes widened. There was a huge, dirty man standing right in front of him, staring down like some kind of monster. His lips started to tremble, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. His mother turned to look—and immediately snapped. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she yelled at Tom. “Standing there and scaring a child like that?”

Tom mumbled, “I was just—”

“Get lost,” she cut him off, voice sharp and furious. Tom didn’t argue. He just turned and slowly walked away, his bag dragging behind him, still light and mostly empty.

Stalking the Sip

Tom wandered a short distance away and crouched behind a bush, keeping his eyes locked on the mother and child from before—like a hunter silently watching his prey. He stayed completely still, hoping they wouldn’t notice him. Then, a stray dog wandered up behind him. The dog gave Tom a quick sniff, circled once, and apparently mistakened that this crouching, filthy man was just another trash bin on the street. Without hesitation, it lifted its leg and sprayed a stream of urine right onto Tom’s shorts, soaking the entire crotch area and leaving a yellow stain. But Tom didn’t even flinch. He was too focused and didn’t notice a thing. Still watching. Still waiting.

After more than ten minutes, the mother and child finally finished their soda and stood up to leave. The kid tossed the empty bottle into the trash can outside the deli store. As they walked past the bushes, the mother suddenly noticed the large yellow-stained wet patch on the front of Tom’s shorts. She rolled her eyes and said, “What are you? Three years old? Wetting yourself in public like that? God, you’re pathetic.” Tom blinked, a bit confused. He didn’t quite understand what she meant.

But the child, emboldened by his mother’s dominance, stepped forward—and without hesitation, launched a sharp, powerful glob of spit right into Tom’s face. It landed with a splat, bursting slightly on impact, and sent tiny droplets flying across his cheek.