[i]When I was younger, 8 or 9 maybe, my friend and I wanted to pull a prank on his neighbor, this old, grumpy hag-woman that lived next door.[/i] [i]On that fateful day in 2002, I was over at his house and had just finished taking a big dump in the toilet. I saw that they kept Dixie cups on the counter of their bathroom. So, in an act of self-proclaimed prepubescent genius, I decided it was a good idea to scoop a chunk of my dump out of the toilet and deliver it personally to the hag's doorstep. As I walked out from the bathroom, I was careful to shield the specimen from any kind of scrutiny until returning to my accomplice, who waited hidden under the low bows of the old redwood tree that separated their two houses. Muffled laughter emanated from behind the veil of branches as I made my approach, tiptoeing to the hag's back porch while couriering my lovely gift. As I rest the Dixie cup full of my sloppy dregs down on her steps, a ghostly shade overtakes the screen window above me—two probing eyes peering down from the door between us. I felt my heart drop and, for a moment's passing, stood there frozen like a dung beetle that had wandered too close to the scorpion's nest. The hinges of the door creak as the hag steps out from behind the threshold to investigate my act of trespass. I flee immediately into the bushes only to find my friend looking onward at this fiendish display now unfolding in front of us. I can feel the look of unalloyed dread as it drapes across both of our faces—like the final curtain call to some sick and depraved Vaudeville act that together we had run amuck. The shepherd's crook was closing in already. We were doomed. The hag hunches over to inspect the peculiarity freshly arrived at her doorstep; a small, slightly dimpled Dixie cup—the contents of which now lingered like some kind of sickly plague, clinging the air. I can feel as beads of sweat form atop my grimaced forehead and spill over my brow into unblinking eyes. The hag calls out. "What is this?" she demands. Panicked, I respond with the only explanation I can think of—the only foreseeable delay to this, our impending demise. "It's pudding!" As my friend and I kneel in the bushes, we watch as the hag kneels down to pick up the Dixie cup half full of the pulpy wreckage that was once my lunch earlier that day, before she makes her way around the bushes. "Well, we'll just have to see what your mother thinks of this." At that moment, I did the only thing any rational person would do after being caught in the act abandoning their shit on someone's doorstep; I ran. I hauled-ass down the alleyway to my house, leaving Usain Bolt's hundred-meter dash in the scattering dust cloud behind me. There was only one place known to man that was deemed appropriate for this magnitude of disaster—the only haven I would have left to return to, to live out the rest of my life in exile. This place was the land known as the space directly underneath my brother's bed. As I sprinted down the alleyway, heart pounding like thunder in my throat with the fear of a gazelle fleeing for its life from the hunt of vengeful shit-lions, I could hear my name carried in the sound of a frantic blood curdling scream, as I left my friend there, alone, in the savage jaws of consequence that had befell our ill-fated prank preparing . I still believe to this day, that must be the fastest I've ever run in my entire life.[/i] [spoiler]True story.[/spoiler] [quote][url=https://www.bungie.net/en/Forums/Post/251729584?sort=0&page=0]Confess Your Past Sins[/url][/quote]