The Story of Kevin

Kevin was a boring sort of guy. Middle aged. Single. Balding. Slightly overweight. He had a dull job in the dull offices of a dull company that produced dull products for dull people.

But Kevin had a secret passion, a hobby to which he was so dedicated that it burned inside him like a hidden fire. I'm going to guess that you assumed this would be some sick, secret fetish, but this is a family joke.

You see, Kevin's hidden passion was tractors. He loved tractors. Loved them. He wore tractor socks to work. At work he worked on his computer, which had tractors for a wallpaper. He kept his schedule on a tractor calendar. While he went home, he played tractor-related games on his iPhone, which he kept in a tractor-shaped protector. When he went to bed, he slept under tractor sheets on a tractor pillow while dreaming dreams about tractors. He was pro-tractor. That was his angle.

The highlight of boring Kevin the tractor fanatic's boring months was the arrival in his mailbox of his favourite journal, Tractor Monthly. While Kevin had subscriptions to all the best tractor-focused periodicals, Tractor Monthly was the best- the New Yorker of tractor journalism.

One day, when Kevin arrived home from work, he found that his next issue of Tractor Monthly had arrived. He made himself a cup of tea, and sat down, opening up the glossy cover to savour this new month's reading. On the first page, there was an advert that made boring little Kevin's boring little heart go all a-flutter!

The world tractor convention was coming. To his town. This year. He had always, always cherished the dream of going to WoTracCon, but he'd never been able to afford the airfares to the glamorous locales in which it was usually held.

As he read on, excitement mounting, the news just got better. Tractor Monthly, that beacon of publishing excellence, was sponsoring a competition. The writer of the best essay on the topic "Why Tractors Are Brilliant" would receive not only a free VIP ticket to the convention, but would be allowed in early to be given a tour of the convention by no less a being than the President of the World Tractor Federation!

Kevin knew that this was his life's calling. He HAD to win. He called up work, and quit his dull job with the dull company to focus all his efforts on crafting his entry. He spent a solid month, working ten or more hours a day. Researching. Brainstorming. Drafting. Re-drafting. Proof reading. Until he had it. The perfect entry.

Of course, he won. Such dedication must be rewarded. And so the tickets and a letter of congratulation arrived. And Kevin waited for the day, six months in the future where he would receive his reward.

It was a long wait for Kevin, but finally, the day came. The ticket said to be at the entrance of the convention centre at eight o'clock. Kevin was there at six, too excited to remain home any longer.

At eight, the door opened, and the President himself came out. He introduced himself, shook boring little Kevin by his boring little hand and lead him inside, into the convention hall. Kevin's head was spinning- he had never seen so many tractors at once. Red. Blue. Green. White. Big. Small. Any tractor your heart could desire- and Kevin's heart could desire quite a few tractors.

The President's secretary interrupted, saying that he had a very urgent phone call. The President apologised to Kevin and said that he should feel free to look around- but please not to touch anything, as the displays were still being finished and were a bit rickety, then disappeared to take his call.

Kevin wandered between the stands, the temptation building inside him as he gazed upon these magnificent machines. He tried his very best to keep his hands to himself.

But then he saw it. The PloughMonster 2800. The tractor, in boring little Kevin's boring little mind, to end all tractors. He couldn't help himself.

He ran to it.

He embraced it.

It fell to the floor.

There was crashing and screaming. Every tractor, like some sick, horrific display of dominoes, collapsed. Millions of dollars worth of machinery, destroyed in the fire of Kevin's passion.

The President stormed in, and stared around, aghast. He became furious. He walked over to Kevin and asked for his WTS membership card. With trembling hands, Kevin gave it to him. The President tore it up and threw the shreds to the ground, then spat upon them. Security came, and Kevin was tossed out into the pouring rain.

Devastated, Kevin wandered the streets. More miserable than any man had ever been. But then a change came over him. He made a decision. If tractors didn't want Kevin, then Kevin would no longer want tractors! He would find a new, more worthy object of his devotion.

Kevin decided that the only way to celebrate such a momentous decision was with a drink.

At 8:30am, the only bar he could find open was a total dive, a genuine hell-hole. But nevertheless, into the dim, grimy, smoke-filled bar he went. When I say smoke filled, I mean filled. He could barely breathe. Kevin's eyes stung. But he went up to the bar.

The barman asked him what he wanted, but as Kevin opened his mouth to reply, something strange happened. The smoke began to pour into Kevin's mouth and lungs. Faster and faster he seemed to suck the smoke down, until he had hoovered up every breath of it in this squalid tavern.

Appalled and confused, the barman looked at him and asked, voice trembling "what the hell are you?!"

Kevin smiled, sadly, and said "Me? I'm an ex tractor fan."

Tl;dr: Probably best not to read it, really.