I was halfway home when the guy who was definitely not a pirate jumped me.
I was taking a shortcut through one of those little municipal playgrounds that always pop up randomly in the suburbs when I heard the pitter-patter of running feet, caught that all-too-familiar whiff of death, and felt the impact of something heavy slamming into me from behind. I face-planted in the woodchips, mouth open in a cry of shock and awe. Whoever had tackled me took no chances, as he quickly grabbed my ears and started bashing my head against the soft, child-safe surface. As I struggled to make sense of the situation and spit out all the extra fiber I’d just inhaled, a nervous, high-pitched voice made his demands known.
“Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?”