Gambalor Goes to the Store

Gambalor is hungry. The store beckons.

But first, a mode of transport. Gambalor must make Gambalor's choices carefully since the incident with the pogostickunicyclehoverboard at the carnivalelementary schoolhomeless shelter last month. The only reasonable choice is a game of chance.

Gambalor extricates Gambalor's lucky coin from the pocket of Gambalor's skin-tight snakescale pants. Gambalor stretches Gambalor's coin-flipping hand in preparation, pulling the overmuscular thumb back to loosen the tendons.

The coin goes into the hand. It rests lightly on the thumb, penned in by the forefinger.

Face up: the visage of a rat. Its cartoonish face grins and stares vacantly into the middle distance like a victim of war.

The bottom face is obscured but Gambalor knows the wisdom inscribed on it all too well. In bold, brash letters curving around the coin's circumference it reads: No cash value. Non-refundable

Gambalor has long pondered the meaning of these words. Gambalor has come to the conclusion that they are a deep message about the meaning of life. No matter how hard one may try to make something of themselves, to be productive in life, they will ultimately fall to the chaotic whimsy of the universe and its innumerable forking paths, any progress is transitory and will ultimately crumble to dust, and yet this life moves ever onward without doubling back or repeating itself so one must ultimately make what they can of it, for there are no refunds. Or something.

Gambalor flips the coin.