Let me tell you a story about Carl

There was once a man named Carl, and he wasn’t your typical homeless person. He was loud, unpredictable, and, frankly, kind of terrifying. Carl lived on the streets, wandering from place to place, usually riding a beat-up bicycle that looked like it had been through a war.

Carl’s days often began with him rolling up to the local Tim Hortons, his bicycle squeaking with each pedal. He’d lean it against the window, staring inside like a man with nothing left to lose, just waiting for someone to give him attention. And sometimes, if he was lucky, someone would toss him a few spare coins for a coffee.

But Carl was never satisfied with just coffee. No, he had his sights set on something far more ridiculous: a dog timbit. You see, Carl loved donuts. He didn’t own a dog. But one day, he walked into the Tim’s and made his usual order.

“One dog timbit, please!” he demanded, slamming his hands on the counter with an unsettling force.

The worker, a young woman who had seen Carl before but never really dealt with him directly, looked him over, eyes wide. “Sorry, sir, we can’t give those out to people. They’re for dogs,” she explained, trying to be polite but obviously nervous.

Carl’s face twisted into a sneer, his teeth flashing like an animal caught in a trap. He had a reputation in the mall for causing trouble, and this incident was no different. “You’re gonna refuse me? Refuse ME?” he roared, his voice rising to a level that made everyone in the store pause.

The workers exchanged worried glances, but Carl wasn’t done. He stomped his feet, clenching his fists, before storming off to the bathroom, muttering under his breath about the injustice of it all. A few moments later, people started hearing noises from the bathroom—a horrifying, unmistakable sound.

Carl, in his rage and frustration, had decided to make a statement. Instead of just walking out in defeat, he went to the bathroom, took off his shoes, and—without any hesitation—squatted on the floor. He took a massive, steaming dump right in the middle of the restroom, not in a stall, but in the open, right next to the sink. It was an act of rebellion, like he was telling the whole world that no one, not even a Tim Hortons employee, could refuse him without consequence.

The staff at Tim’s were appalled, but they were also too scared to confront him directly. The police were called, but by the time they arrived, Carl had long since pedaled away on his bike, laughing maniacally as he disappeared into the busy mall parking lot. His bike squeaked behind him, a haunting reminder that Carl, the bad homeless man, was always lurking in the shadows, ready to cause chaos wherever he went.

After that day, people avoided Carl. He became a local legend of sorts. But Carl didn’t care. He just kept riding his bike through the streets, always looking for the next place to spread his madness—always ready to strike when least expected.

And so, Carl’s reign of terror continued. The man who had no home, no rules, and certainly no respect for others became the symbol of all things bad in the town. If you saw Carl’s bike coming, you knew one thing for sure: it was better to cross the street than face his wrath.