I was going for my regular free-spirit walk through town the other day, when I stumbled across a man who lay on the ground with a spanner in his hand, a cardboard sign resting in front of him. The sign said, ‘Ask me who I am.’ So naturally, I nudged the scruffy man awake and asked who he was.
“Oh, thanks for asking,” he said. “I’m just on my lunch break. I work at a mechanic workshop around Ringwood. Actually, I’m the manager, so I guess you could say I’m the Bosk.”
“You mean the boss?” I asked, giving him a quizzical look.
The man shook his head. “No, the Bosk. It’s a pun because we’re a Bosk workshop. I’m the Bosk, the head honcho, the number one. I’m also known as the Godfather, the King of the Bling, the Born Identity. I’m the taxi driver. I’m Maw the Shark. I’ll be honest, I forgot what we were talking about quite a while back. Who are you? Do you happen to need brake service near Ringwood?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I’m a psychic by trade, though. Perhaps you’d like me to read your palms and predict your future? It’s only fifty bucks, although you don’t really look like you have much money.”
“Oh, this?” the man said, looking down at himself. “I may look homeless, but it’s just so people don’t rob me while I have a nap. Sure, fifty bucks it is.”
I took the mechanic’s hand and read the lines along his palm. I pretended to consider them for a moment, then thought back to my training as a psychic. My mind got a little sidetracked, admittedly, as I started to think about what sort of Good Chi bags I could buy with fifty dollars. After a moment I pulled myself back to the moment.
“Oh dear,” I said. “You should return to your workshop immediately. If you don’t, something terrible will happen and you will regret your tardiness forever. Hurry!”
The man looked at me concerned, then slapped a fifty-dollar note into my hand and ran off.
Another satisfied customer.