the power of positive thinking

Swaddled in torn-up porn, nestled in the sewer crevice frozen and dirtied by a painful January, baby Biljo could barely squeal, much less peddle his tiny flags and ape-shaped confectionaries. It was hard work, even for a one-year-old, even for a one-year-old tenaciously mothered by vicious wolverines, even for a one-year-old raised to handle life's curveballs. Poverty had struck down Biljo and poachers carried off the pelts of his family, leaving him to dabble in such unscrupulous endeavors.

Biljo did not know he was a man, peering down at his clawless digits. But he sure as hell could act like one. Eight degrees and a sidewalk full of ungrateful businessladies was all he needed. He leapt to his feet, shook off the snow and fingered away the coke from his nostrils. Today was his day.

Biljo would sell eleventy bazillion miniaturized flags that day. No small feat. Not even death could steal his thunder. Nosireebob.

Dream the impossible.