Inspired by the enigmatic mind of Todd, I give you the first few pages of my new short story, or hell, probably more like novel-

Karate Florist (working title…)

Jim Butler worked at a flower shop. He’d always had an infatuation with floral arrangements, engrossed by the vivid colors and the miniscule detail of the bouquets he picked for his relatives at his hometown in Centerville, Texas. Jim was also one of three students who took all four years of the Floral Design class in high school. The other two were, as one might expect, of the opposite sex.
But despite his specific fancy for pansies, Jim did not happen to be one. When not practicing the deep art of his plants, he could be found with the few male friends he had at his local Shotokan Karate dojo.
His secondary pastime was all that kept him from being flogged by the hick community that resided in Centerville. Jim’s intellect and love for the finer things didn’t make him too many friends in Texas; most graduates were more obsessed with driving around ranches in their pickup trucks than the idea of actually adding up the amount of money the vehicles cost their parents. The philosophy of a true country bumpkin can be condensed into three four-letter words: truk, meat, and beer.
And so, Jim was a smart man. Especially in comparison to, well, just about anyone within a 30-mile radius. But with the ridicule that comes with being a florist, also spawns much stress buildup. Jim didn’t embrace the “way of life” that karate generally stands for. The word karate comes from the combination of two Japanese characters: kara, meaning “empty”, and te, meaning “hand”. The suffix do is usually added to the combined word, which means “way of life”. In essence, the traditional art of Shotokan karate-do goes far beyond simple self-defense, but encompasses a larger philosophy: that polishing the physical technique will polish one’s own mind, and vice versa.
Jim didn’t care much for all this. In his mind, he was polished just fine, and simply wanted to beat the stuffing out of a punching bag to rid himself of his inner torments. Number one was being made fun of, and number two was being forced to work with those middle-aged women in the flower shop. Better to say “bossed around by” than “forced to work with”. The bouncy old Margaret in her blue sweater-vest, telling Jim where to put this and that, how to do that and this, when deep inside, his mind filling with hatred for the old hag. The only other thing she ever did was talk about her three little children; subtly beg for his sympathy for her financial situation and the agony of having to put them through college. Jim was her silent pet rat terrier in the sense he’d pretend to listen to everything she said; all the more convenient he was strong enough to lift giant crates of fresh roses.
Jim’s mind was always full of such scathing vituperations saved up for his boss. Like an incalculable number of atoms in a balloon struggling to escape, the evil thoughts bounced off his skull and soaked back into his brain, a bitter acid he would save up until he quit his job. Damnit you old whore, stop telling me what to do! I know more about this art than you ever figured out by being a hippie before I was even born! Tough shit. Shouldn’t have had so many kids anyway. Stop complaining. No, just stop talking. I’m going to kill you with a broken flower pot.
Jim planned to release all that anger at that store owner one day, leave the little rundown town of Centerville with its population of 2,638, its ancient supermarkets with names such as Gerland’s Food Fair or Gunny’s Liquor Shack. Gunny died a long time ago from a burnt out liver. It was really Ralph’s Liquor Shack, but no one ever had the money to change the sign. Jim would move to a bigger city, like Houston or Dallas; scratch that, too many annoying relatives lived in Dallas. He’d go to Houston and open up his own flower shop.
But until then, he was satisfied enough ignoring the woman whenever possible to sit down and make flower bouquets, and occasionally ring up a dozen roses for a single customer late for a lovers’ tryst.
And there was always Jim’s martial arts pastime. His two buddies Joe and Joe-Bob kept him company there well enough, though the two of them had long ago given up the idea of challenging Jim to a sparring session. Which, of course, traditionally, sparring is non-contact in a Shotokan dojo- but while Jim chose not to follow the way of the karate-do master, Joe and Joe-Bob just didn’t understand the inner philosophy at all. Again, no one within a 30-mile radius did. They couldn’t even take the time to understand what country the art form originated from.
“Just a bunch of Chinese bullshit,” Joe would say. “I just like to kick shit.”

I do apologize, but indentation is somewhat difficult in blogger. Meh.