Canterbury Tale Intro.

Its Monday morning and lack of sleep and frustration dictate my gate. I am tired and move at a glacial pace as I wander down into the depths of the Subway. The platform is crowded with the usual morning commuters, the junkie picking at his wrists looking for the next fix, corporate automatons checking their devices incessantly, tourists taking pictures of everything and even a hairdresser loudly popping and chewing his gum. We are a motley crew, grumpy and dreading the day ahead. As the train races in, we board on cue as the bell dings and the doors close, trapping us inside. Our commute begins, packed like sardines in a zooming metal tube to oblivion. The lights flicker and our rhythmic swaying soon comes to a screeching halt. Rumbling discontent soon turns into angry shouts and obscenities, as panic sets in. Then the intercom crackles our worst fears, we are stuck, in a cramped space, amongst angry strangers. As frustration turns to outrage, I comically suggest we tell tales to pass the time. As the crowd quiets from their gawking stares, I begin my tale to ward off further banter…
…So, if you want to  ____________________________________________ then don’t __________________________________. And that is the way the world wags on. Who’s next?