Harold Good: A short story transcribed by Millionaire Platinum in 2004...
Harold wasn't bad at what he did. He was bald with a disturbing smile. That's what he did. But he was miserable at virtually every other thing in the universe associated with living. He believed he had children. I'm not so certain he could have. Watching him was a marvel in its own right. Every time he saw someone discarding a used one, he would attack that child.
Parents were no doubt enraged, as they should be. But Harold went about his business unscathed. Unpunished. A child smiles at a leaf turning over with a slight breeze through the air, the sun dancing through the miniature shadows. Harold spits on the back of his neck.
These are the children Harold Heeber claims his own. He describes his own life as a work of art. A monument to the beauty of life. A father's reflection of beauty in youth.
Harold must have been misinformed. This bald disturbance with the smile routinely empties city streets. Pedestrians flock in herds to the southwest sidewalk, the furthest, while he continues eyeing the crowd for the child to call his own.
An unlocked Buick Regal, a child in the back, a mother in Albertson's. Harold. You have found your first born. The door slowly opened, facilitating a larger, creepier smile.
"Your son is in the street," the child proclaimed.
Harold spun, ran, and was struck by the orangey bus.
He was deceased for Millionaire Platinum to clean his pavement.
It was peach colored.