by Adam Acidophilus
A man set off very early one morning to visit some distant relations – who lived in a town far away and over the mountains. And though the way was hilly and rough, in a country of desert and scrub, in a land where the weather was hot and the sun was merciless: he decided to walk all the way. He reckoned he could manage it.And so he set off, carrying a few gifts for his relatives, a little food, a little water, and a little money (which he did not wish to squander on more elaborate forms of transport, such as the ass).
But alas, no sooner had he left his hometown and ascended the mountains on his route, than he was set upon by bandits who stole his few possessions, and beat him up for not having better ones.
And thus he lay by the side of the road, bleeding and beaten and penniless, and not quite sure who he was, or where he was, or what he was doing there.
And as the sun climbed higher and the day grew hotter various other travellers – either leaving the city or heading down towards it – noticed the beaten up traveller by the side of the road, and did nothing.
Nothing at all. They just stared at him, or looked away, or stepped over him or crossed the road. And took his mumbled speech to be a bit creepy, rather than a side effect of having just had his teeth kicked in.
However, after several hours, one passer by took a bit more interest. A Samaritan. From Samaria. A crap Samaritan.
“And what happened to you then?” asked the Samaritan, leaning over the victim.
“I eaten uh!” mumbled the old man.
“Having a sleep are you?” shouted the crap Samaritan, remembering that people with no teeth are usually deaf. “Well you shouldn’t sleep here! There are bandits! Not safe!”
“I o is no say!” spat the old man. “Ey orl eddy ot me!”
“You’re bleeding,” said the Samaritan. “You want to get that seen to.”
At that point a party passed by. “Everything all right over there?” they asked.
“Somebody fallen over,” the Samaritan explained. “Had a few too many, didn’t we?”
“Noooo!” said the old man.
“Is he drunk?” asked the party.
“Just a bit,” laughed the Samaritan, picking up the man’s empty water bottle and shaking it, “usual story. Probably on his way home after a bash. He hasn’t got a penny on his person, lost the lot playing cards or dice – or drank it all! Fell over – either that or fell off his own ass and bashed his face in. End of story.”
The members of the part tutted. “There really is too much of this sort of thing,” one of the women of the party chipped in. “I mean look at him! Look at those clothes. What a shambles!”
(This was particularly hurtful to the old man who had been wearing an appropriate robe for such a long and dusty journey, and didn’t wish to wear his best, because he thought it might attract bandits.)
“And still he expects society to bail him out willy nilly,” added another member of the party – whose own son, as chance would have it, was a professional bandit of some repute.
“Willy nilly!” echoed the party – who were a group of fascist birdwatchers out to check for migrant species, and kill them.
“As for you,” the woman sneered at the Samaritan, “you look a bit Samaritan to me. Have you got your permit?”
“No . . . well . . . I’m actually on my way back to Samaria,” he lied. “This drunk has delayed my progress.”
“Then clear off!” said the leader of the party. “And as for you – ” he said to the injured old man – “I think you rather brought this on yourself.”
Moral: I hate people like that.
© Adam Acidophilus 2020