I was just trudging back from school, my backpack slung over one shoulder, the snow crunching under my boots as I made my way home through the quiet streets. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows on the fresh powder, and I was lost in my thoughts—replaying the day's classes and wondering if I'd have time to finish my homework before dinner. That's when I noticed him: a random guy in a ridiculously thick bear-fur coat, the kind that looked like it belonged on a caveman in a blizzard. He was walking beside me, matching my pace step for step, his breath visible in the cold air like steam from a kettle. His coat was massive, with fur trim that swayed with each step, and he had a wild beard that was half-frozen.
I tried to ignore him at first, figuring he was just some eccentric neighbor out for a stroll. But then, without warning, he grabbed me tight by the shoulders and started shaking me real hard—like I was a soda can he was trying to mix up. My teeth rattled, and my vision blurred for a second. "FOGO!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the nearby houses. "FOGO FOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGOFOGO!"
I blinked in shock, my heart pounding. "Sir... is there something I can help you with?" I managed to stammer, trying to twist out of his grip. Who was this weirdo?
"I want FOGO! Well, do you know him?" he demanded, his eyes wild behind a pair of foggy glasses perched on his nose. Droplets of melted snow clung to the lenses, making him look even crazier.
"I'm Fogo, Tom Fogo," I replied, confused and a little scared. Who was this lunatic?
"YOU, A FOGO! THE LAST NATURE BREATHING USER!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up with manic excitement. He released my shoulders only to jab a finger at my chest dramatically.
"Sorry?" I said, backing up a step. This guy was clearly unhinged—talking about "nature breathing" like it was some mystical art from a video game or anime. Before I could process it, he lunged forward again, pressing the right side of my forehead with his thumb like he was testing a melon for ripeness, and then poking my left cheek really hard with his index finger, over and over. "Oww, oww, sir, owwoww, it hurts, oww, oww, stop it, owch!" I yelped, swatting at his hand. The pokes stung like crazy, and I could feel my cheek turning red and throbbing. What the heck was his problem? Was this some kind of bizarre initiation ritual?
Then, just as abruptly as he'd started, he shoved me backward onto the snowy ground. I landed with a thud, my backpack cushioning the fall but not enough to avoid a mouthful of snow. He spun on his heel and bolted down the street, his bear-fur coat flapping like a cape. "I'll call the cops, you psycho!" I shouted after him, scrambling to my feet and brushing the snow off my pants. My forehead and cheek were still smarting, and I could see a few curious neighbors peeking out their windows. Who was that guy? And what did he mean by "nature breathing"? I pulled out my phone, half-tempted to dial 911, but hesitated—maybe he was harmless, just some delusional fan of whatever weird lore he was spouting. Still, I hurried home, glancing over my shoulder the whole way, my mind racing with questions. Was this the start of something bigger, or just a random freak encounter in the snow? Either way, I wasn't sticking around to find out.