License To Fuck

It's a normal day, and nothing appears out of the ordinary. It's sunny, warm, and breezy. The streets are flooded with the sound of footsteps, laughter, car engines, and rustling leaves. But a familiar yellow light flickers from among the crowd of people, one that causes a collective pang of unease. It's the unmistakable gold armband that is only worn by a Licensee — a person with the License To Fuck. Over on a park bench, a short blonde woman grabs her boyfriend and pulls him close. "Don't look at the Licensee, honey." She whispers, pretending to read her magazine: "Just act normal." Three delinquents walk by, giving the Licensee the side-eye. One of the delinquents, a college-aged goth girl, doesn't even try to hide her disgust. "Ew, what a fucking freak!" Her friend, a punk with spiky black hair, nods his head in agreement. A motherly woman with soft brown hair approaches the Licensee, pretending like she isn't terrified to be there. "H-Hi!" She stammers: "N-Nice day we are having, r-right?" She forces a wide smile, hoping that this friendly gesture will appease the Licensee. Near the bus stop, a bulky man in combat boots nudges his wife aside, preparing himself to confront the Licensee. "You better not fuck with my wife!" He whispers to himself under his breath: "Or we're going to have a big fucking problem!"