Sad Blart : Fall Cop

Chapter 2 - Blart Sick

3:50 PM.  Standing still as I pause for a moment. Thinking about what had just occurred 5 minutes ago. Damn. My throat hurts. Soon after I'm rushing into a bathroom stall. Tears roll down my face as I weep. Desperately grasping for control. My head hung over a toilet as the horrible pit in my stomach grows deeper. I can't hold back. I'm barely breathing. Paul Blart. Drowning in excruciating pain. Lonely as a star. I begin to cough rapidly. I worried for my sanity as my sore throat stings. Then I feel something. Slowly flying out of my mouth. A disgusting rush of vomit. I slip down onto the floor.

My heart sinks as I cry. Puking. The liquid violently spills across the bathroom floor. It drips onto my hairy, bushy brown beard as the endless river of tears continues to flow. The loss of Maya, the loss of my mother. The loss of everything that ever mattered. It needs to be healed! The hurt, the torment, and the suffering. Is this the job of a Mall Cop? To deal with this sick and twisted life? This cold awful existence? The life paired with the hideous agonizing loss of the loved? My mind reels as I question everything.

Who am I? Why is my tie completely ruined? Why do I have a beard like my uncle? How did I get here? Why am I here? Why do I deserve to be here? What is the point of any of this? The point of life? The point of this job? The very reason as to why Paul Blart walks the earth?! I stop to think about it as the chunky vomit rolls down my grotty shirt. I then remember. The reason why I do what I do. To help someone. To assist the public. To contribute to a noble cause. To make something of myself. But clearly, I've failed in that department.

Failure may be key. Failure may inspire acts of greatness but this nasty path. This life. It all seems predetermined. Like I said during my keynote speech in Vegas. I didn't choose security. Security chose me! I ponder my existence as I get back up again to clean myself. Then it kicks in. I turn back and fall to the ground. Could it be? My hypoglycemia! Close to passing out, my eyes are ready to shut as I spot the gross, manky lollipop on the filthy tiled floor. Do I go for it? My mind says no. It's best I just pass out and avoid the taste but I need this job. It's my only purpose in life. To serve and protect the West Orange Pavillion Mall. Screw it! I don't care if I'm sick. They need me and I need sugar.

Reaching out, I quickly grab the lollipop and shove it in my dinky idiot mouth. Its sweet strawberry taste is drowned out by the disgusting hairs and putrid dust that slides across my grimy tongue. I swallow it as the sugar hurtles through my body. Then out of nowhere another wave of vomit spews out of my mouth as the siren of the Milk truck relapses through my mind. MOM NO! I continue to gag before crawling up and exiting the stall. I turn to face myself in the mirror. Gazing in horror.

A businessman in his 30s stares at me. "What the hell happened to you," he says in confusion. I turn to him and say "Nothing to see here sir." The man grumbles. Walking away. Shocked. The tears stop flowing. I scratch my beard and grab a tissue to wipe my face. Mom wherever you are. I need you. To help clear the trauma that crashes against my inner subconscious. Mom. I can feel your spirit. I know you haunt me. I've known you for years. The truck doesn't matter. It's the memories that count and I know you'll always be with me in this dull miserable life. A life where I'm always lusting for peanut butter. Always looking for something to fill the cracks and holes of my dilapidated heart. Always regretful. Forever heartsick.