You awaken slowly and peacefully late Sunday morning. The steady rain beats softly against the roof and the cool winter air tingles against your nose; you don't want to leave from under the covers.
You decide, however, that you can't have a proper lazy Sunday without a nice home-cooked breakfast, so you tear yourself away from the warm comfort of you bed and make your way to the kitchen.
As you stumble down the hall, you notice a pink string tied around the index finger of your right hand. You rack your brain, but for the life of you can't recall what you needed to remember. Oh, well.
The bacon sizzles in the pan, every once I a while giving off a satisfying pop when a moist pocket of fat meets the hot metal. The smells of a lovely brunch fill your home as you check the sports page. You lost most of your bets again, nothing new.
The pink string nags at you as you put the newspaper down. What the hell was this for? Oh, well.
You tear into your pancakes - silver dollar, no syrup, with a little batter on the side for dipping - and before you've gotten through the second one, there's a loud knock at your front door.
Who'd be bothering you on a Sunday like this?
You amble to the door and swing it open. Standing in front of you is a large, ugly Armenian dress in black leather. The gold chain around his neck glistens brightly in the light coming from your living room. He holds his right hand behind his back.
"Can I help you?" you ask obliviously.
"You lose too many bet, not pay," he says in a severely broken speech that barely qualifies as English. "Davit say you time to pay is up."
The Armenian brings his right hand around to the front, revealing a wooden baseball bat. He wastes no time breaking your knee with it.
You fall to the ground, screaming in pain. As the Armenian lifts the baseball bat over his head to swing down on you, your hands instinctively shoot out in front of your face. You catch a glimpse of the pink string on your index finger.
Oh.