Target on the Bench

A bright red plastic bottle cap was resting upside down on the bus shelter's painted metal bench, right beside a flat wooden coffee stirrer. You don't need an arena or an official roster to run an honest test of aim. I dropped into a balanced crouch, braced one knee against the smooth steel, and gripped the thin wooden stick with both hands. Three feet down the bench, a faint circular watermark marked out the target. I locked my eyes on the rim, squared my wrists, and delivered a clean, measured sweep. The red plastic shot forward with a crisp hiss, gliding effortlessly across the enamel until it settled dead center in the circle. Pure, undeniable precision.