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by Scott Wilson

Injustice floated down the Queen Street Mall in the cool autumn breeze, seeking someone to befriend; someone who had not heard things about him yet. Many stepped aside to avoid him, though they could not see his ethereal figure. People often saw the things that he did, or the aftermath of his presence. But he was trying harder every day.

Upon reaching a cafe, he casually sat down and watched the patrons, looking for someone, anyone, to laugh at. It wasn’t long before a couple of businessmen in their early twenties walked in and began taking out their frustration on the gorgeous blonde waitress. They were dressed in Armani suits, silk ties and Julius Marlow shoes. Both worked as lawyers in the prestige offices across the mall and earned more than the cafe was worth each week.

The taller of the two began chatting up the waitress, who didn’t take kindly to the derogative remarks about how her skirt was too long and her blouse had too many buttons on it.

Injustice hoped up, walked to the quickly developing argument to intervene. He stood by the two men and listened, making their conversation into a story he could relay when convenient. When the voices began to rise and other patrons started looking uncomfortable, an overweight Italian woman heaved her heavy frame from a booth by the counter and made her way over.

“What’s going on here?” she said.

“Its okay, Mrs. Savvas,” the waitress said. “I’ve sorted it out now.”

Injustice floated between the small group, like a wisp of smoke. He settled on Mrs. Savvas’ shoulder and whispered in her ear.

“That’s it!” she yelled at the waitress. “You’re fired.”

The waitress began crying and rushed to the kitchen to grab her bag, then left through the back door in hysterics. She was already a month behind with her rent and her son desperately needed bucket-loads of medicine for the rare respiratory disease he recently developed.

“I apologies’ for her attitude,” Mrs. Savvas said. “Please, order what you like, on the house.”

The businessmen ordered the dearest items on the menu, ate very little of it, and walked out feeling indifferent to the incident. To them, a fifty-dollar morning tea was worth less to them than the waitress was to the owner of the cafe.

Injustice slowly glided from the cafe back into the mall, unsure why his comment about how bad the waitress’s attitude was didn’t help the situation. He was sure that it would have helped the poor young girl against those lovely young men.

He noticed two police officers talking to a group of young aborigines loitering around the ATM’s a few meters down the mall.