Quoted By:
>Fuck dem kids
Your master plan comes to you in an instant, as it always does, and fifteen minutes later you're striding out of the massive filthy kettle-corn line with two overflowing buckets under your arms. Already seagulls waddle along behind you, pecking at the kernels that jostle off the top- ha! They have no idea you're about to blow their little birdy minds, just as soon as you...
There you go. You're in sight of the dumpsters, or what you assume are the dumpsters: at the moment they're a shrieking teeming mass of grey and white. You envision limping to First Aid, peppered with beak wounds, the bored nurse lifting your sleeve to reveal the spiral stick-and-poke. But that won't happen. After all, you hold dominion over lesser man <span class="mu-i">and</span> beast, and your cause is sacred, plus if the rite last night went properly your skin should be as iron- you never know if they go properly. (This is one of the downsides of worshipping forbidden gods.) But- but it <span class="mu-i">did</span> go properly, you feel it in your pitch-black heart, so you take a handful of kettle corn and toss it toward the dumpsters.
This attracts the attention of about a half-dozen seagulls. Rookie numbers. You keep throwing until you gather thrice that, then begin to sidle backward, littering kettle corn as you go. The seagulls trail behind obediently...
...all the way to the beach. May the Wyrm vaporize all beaches, those foot-scalding fish-smelling eye-stinging rough itchy windy trash-depositories! How would anybody lay a toe on this land willingly, much less <span class="mu-i">cavort</span> atop it? Are you the only one with a inch of sand in your sneakers? You have nothing but pity for the roving pack of beach-children before you, so young and yet so brainwashed. You're doing them a service, is what you tell yourself, as you wind up and fling one-and-a-half tubs of kettle corn, fourteen white seagulls, and six grey-dappled seagulls in their general direction. You're disabusing them of their illusions early. Maybe their memory of Godsdays will be permanently marred? Maybe one or two will find a better road to travel? Maybe you are sprinting away, cackling to the sound of high-pitched screams. Nothing wrong with that.
If you circle around the edge and dive back into the crowd, nobody will notice you. What will they look for? A woman in blue? Ha. One good deed's done, but you've got <span class="mu-i">plenty</span> of steam left in you. You just-
"LOTTIE?"
Some man's voice carries over the din. A wife got lost? Or daughter? Gee, what a pity. Your gait slows to a fast-walk as you make it back onto the pavement. What next for the illustrious C.R. Fawkins? (They'll be asking that in the papers soon.) Where do you see yourself in the next 5 years? Where do <span class="mu-i">you</span> see yourself, you'd parry wickedly, knowing the toupeed interviewer would, within 5 years, be wiped from all existence. Though, more practically, you need to figure out what—
"<span class="mu-i">LOTTIE?</span>"
(1/3?)
