As I sped about on my vespa in Bankwood, I saw a mangy looking old man. He waved me down and told me that everyone called him Uncle Chik-Chaq, and made sure to tell me it was with a q, he then started telling me the most bizarre story I have ever heard. He ranted about how a god damn horse got in his petunias once and tore his garden up. I asked him where he lived and he replied that he had no real home and that he was constantly wandering. I asked him how he could have had a garden of petunias if he had no home, he paused looked as if he was in thought, and with greater speed than I had imagined possible from this gangly looking man, bit my wrist.
I then hit him on the head with my helmet and he ran away screaming about the communists.
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