quinnster
The reporter stood in the pouring rain outside Mandrake Industries, waiting to speak to the elusive Dr. Drew Stafford. Suddenly a vortex opened and everybody died in pain the end and also there were superheroes aw fuck.
She would lend them anything: pens, paper, white-out, her stapler. She never expected to get them back, but that brief moment where their fingers touched hers made it all worthwhile.
Shorthanded, the team went into the final game. Poor Roy Mickson was still out with the terrible groin injury that left him unconscious in the field, and left an entire crowd disgusted and amazed. The team won the game, but that's not the real story here.
Autumn is often considered a time of death, at least in the Frye sense, but Winston had always been energized by the sight of leaves falling. It meant more spaces for him to hide rotten eggs in Mr. McCarthy's lawn.
The run tires him out. Each step forces more blood out of his heart and through his already struggling respiratory system. Each step onto the hard sidewalk feels like tremors surging up through his legs and into his pulsing brain.
His affectionate gaze was like a napalm dandelion in her small, trembling hand. Burning and itching, but ever so comfortable and reassuring.
His flannel shirt, stained with Pabst Blue Ribbon was lost in the sea of the concert-goers, as they swirled and tangoed into one mass of chanting, screaming projectiles. All was well.
"I'm a made man." I repeated to myself as I crossed the flower-decked street of southeast Suburbia. I don't belong here, but someone has invited me into her world, and I feel gifted.
We gave them gifts of gold, myrrh, and smallpox, and we expect in return nothing less than the surrender of their gods and traditions. I lifted my bow into the air and called out the faint hymn of nature.
I have a gift. A bright, shiny, sparkling, blue-ballooned gift. It's magical, preposterous, and brilliant. I can smell bullshit from a mile away.
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