Gregory Firing appeared normal to the naked eye. He woke up every morning, groaning about the coffee quietly. He got dressed and bought an egg on his way to work. He even complained about the traffic.

It was the type of work he was in that set him apart.

Many people go to work at a desk job, typing in numbers seven hours a day. Gregory found no interest in this line of work, so he went with an obvious choice: a BMX biker.

Obviously.

On this particular day, Greg woke up with a fire in his belly. His eyes shot open to his alarm, overriding the typical dreariness that coated his normal routine. The goateed man shot out of bed, ready for his big day of training. He was near ready for the competition to happen the following day. Greg was so excited, in fact, he skipped his coffee to go straight to work.

For reference, he needed to be pretty excited to skip coffee.

Arriving at the sandy training ground, Greg unstrapped his bike to work. Jumping, twisting, spinning, flying like a bird on two wheels. For several hours this continued, as he slowly built mental confidence for the next day. Not that he needed any more, as many of his friends would agree.

Finally, after a long day, Gregory decided to dismount. He had at least three coats of sand layered over his aching body. His legs burned with the satisfying pain of hard work. Strapping his bike to the back of his dented blue pickup truck, Greg started to drive.

Greg was not the best role model. This needs to be explained, to justify what he did next.

On the way back, he spotted a shabby bar. Without even reading the name, Greg pulled over, in need of some excitement. Excitement meaning alcohol, of course.

Greg stayed at the bar for more than a few scotches. Quite a lot more, in fact.

And so, three hours later, Gregory Firing stumbled into the soft darkness of a city dusk, laughing at nothing. He was feeling really good tonight. Maybe it was the late night, or the competition, or that pretty lady in the bar, but he was feeling good. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Who knows.

He felt so good, he decided to explore. Also, he had the judgement to decide against driving anywhere in his dazed condition. Looking across the street, Greg spotted a shop crammed into a corner. The shop read “Lady Fortune’s Mystical Fortunes.”

Normally, Greg would never buy that crap. Fortunes? Not for him.

But on this night, he decided to try something new. Which is why, three minutes later, Greg was sitting in a way too heavily incensed room, staring at a lady who looked as old as time. She was rubbing her temples, eyes shut tight as she stared at the ground in concentration.

Greg just sat there grinning goofily.

Finally, the woman spoke, keeping her eyes tightly closed. “You will miss something very important,” she rasped. Then, the final words came from her mouth. “Five-ninety-nine, please.”

Greg’s grin disappeared, replaced with a look of great dismay. Dread filled him. “I’m gonna miss the jump,” he muttered to no one in particular. He slammed the money of the table and sprinted out the door, tears welling up in his eyes. Of course, Lady Fortune had not told a single accurate fortune ever. Everyone knew about her completely made up prophecies. Unless, of course, it was a certain drunk Gregory.

And so, Gregory stumbled as fast as he could through the sidewalk, mumbling.

“I’m gonna miss the jump.”

“I’m gonna miss the jump.”

Passerby were looking at the man, bewildered.

Finally, he turned into an alley, slumped against the wall, and blacked out.

Greg’s eyes cracked open, and he winced. It felt like his head had been smashed with a brick.

Then, he panicked.

Looking at his watch, he gasped.

It read 12:30.

The competition had ended at 12.

He had missed it.

And so, Gregory Firing walked slowly home, trophy-less, and with a killer headache.

What a day, he thought sadly, slumping.

Well, there was always next year.