phil
"There is no wonder in these false miracles," the Russian proclaimed to the gathered crowd. "Before me, I see not the hopeful masses come to be rewarded for their faith, but a coven of the conned, clinging to desperate delusions that their investments will be rewarded through fanatic, unearned, devotion!"
Petrov embraced the translucent specter of his guilt, with tears that only shame could forge. "How is this? Why?" He sputtered in a thick, Russian accent, only to receive a silence as indirect as his questions.
"So Bumhaus was your teacher? What was that like?" The young man grumped as he moved a heavy load over to another crate.
"As you'd expect, really. Lots of slaps, and a fair bit of disdain. But damn sharp. Sharper than three needles balanced on each other's heads, I'd say."
A severe rash had spread across her entire back, painting it a garish pinkish crimson that blotchified every freckle and scar. She couldn't lay on anything but her side. At night, she would cry herself to sleep.