“The fog moved in quickly,” she gesticulated wildly with rigid intense jazz hands. This was not the only indication that she was insane, for her eyes were as rabid as her overly unkempt hair full of incidental dreadlocks and foreign nits, as well as the miscellaneous fur of at least seventeen cats, eighteen if you count Boris The Hairless Cat. More revealing were her words, miscalculated gibberish or a random rant, it mattered not. She had the floor now, and she was about to abuse her powers as a seldom-tax-paying citizen.
Today being Friday, I thought I’d share a tale of gruesome happenstance. It is a story that is definitely not for the faint of heart. If you suffer from weak heart syndrome, commonly known as WHS or Lou Gehrig’s Other Disease, consult your doctor before reading further.
It was Friday the 12th, a much more menacing day than the very over-rated Friday the 13th. If one had the luxury to stop, look and listen, they would have noticed the omnipresence of mystical energy so powerful it could only be summed up as freaky deaky.
It was twenty days before Christmas, and Scrooge Jr. graced the peasants in the mall with his presence. It was a self-imposed annual event in which he compared and contrasted his superior wealth against the lazy pathetic and poor. Thus far, Scrooge Jr. was winning, while the rest drowned in a sea of their personal failure.
Not only was The Alchemist bored, she was restless, thus twitchy and itchy, reticent as hell, buzzed on heroin, and drunk on cooking sherry, perhaps the most under-rated high. It must be noted, she had more liquor on her breath than most taverns stock. Worst of all, she was lonely; as lonely as all the recurrent overwrought characters in a Sting song.