To Anders, the social world mostly occurred from the neck-down. It wasn’t easy being a giant, but then again, nothing came easy to him.
He fondly recalled his childhood. His foster parents had found him floating on a raft of reeds on the Lyngbygårds when he was a toddler. They raised him in the typical Danish manner: corporal punishment was both punishment and reward for all deeds done. Upon puberty, he was forced into work in the family textile trade, where he sharpend needlepoints and wove goatyarn. On good days, he was fed a bowl of porridge as reward for his work. Sometimes his parents would even let him run about on the street with a hoop and stick.
Flash-forward one-hundred and sixty years, and here he was, at Harvard, pursuing his PhD. He’d been conflicted upon moving in with his roommates, given his superpowers. How would he let them know that their every thought trickled into his mind, like an effluvial pollutant. How could he tell them of his super-persuasive powers?
Fortunately, the events of November 11th, obviated the dilemma. Anders simply told his roommates that his superpowers had suddenly sprung into being the same time as their own.
Anders’ mind had again drifted. Here he was, at the farmers market, thinking of trivialities! He had three goals for the day: to speak to Roshni, to finish teaching calculus to his artificially evolved yeast, and to purchase a bushel of cucumbers. Two of his goals had already been accomplished.
He glared at the proprietor of the vegetable cart. “What do you mean by the price here?”
“I means what I says. The cucumbers are two dollahs and fifty cents a pound”
The vulgar Boston accent offended Anders’ ears. Normally, he was not one to abuse his superpowers; however, the disgusting rhotic R of the American Northeast had a special place in hell, as far as he was concerned.
“I don’t know. Do you not mean that the cucumbers are free?”
“You fuckin’ crazy?”
“No, no, no, no, no, no, you mean that they are free.” Anders insisted, a peculiar glint in his eye.
“I s’pose you’re right. ‘ere you go.”
Anders giggled. He’d certainly given him some bloody hell.
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