Random
Who knew a trip to the Hicky could be an adventure?
I enter through the glistening clear doors. I hold it open letting another poor soul pass through. (One must allow fodder before them in case of attack). The air is close, and a fire undulates in silence. Chairs, padded chairs of earthy hues, furnish observation alcoves. Empty for now, they pose no threat.
I see "La Verna" ramble across the cream-colored wall: the name of the conqueror, allegedly a god of some sort. The bizarre practices of the cult invariably confuse me, rewritten incessantly. I pass the guards behind their control counters without their notice. Reaching the imposing blue doors, I have hit the final checkpoint. My rehearsals come to this crossing. I am Dover Devlin, English entrepreneur.
Pushing through the despotic doors. I produce my card, or rather Dover Devlin's card.
"Madam, how are you this fine evening?" I asked, raising the card.
No answer, as she was absorbed nose deep into a book. I Think of Hunter T:
"My blood is to thick for Nevada. I've never able to properly explain myself in this climate."
She takes and swipes it. Perfect. I leave with with a nod.
I must seize a seat, for the allocation of resources is quite unjust. Let fire and fury be my conduct, I say. Carpe Diem. I see a crowd of gawking fools pass by. Another gaggle of goofs gets up. The whole room shifts and whirls like a breathing animal, a serpent set to entangle me. I must be cunning, dodging along the alleys between tables. A flying fork whizzes by my nostrils. I can smell the curdled ranch dressing on the prongs. It lands to the side, seemingly without a target. I see an opening and charge.
I sit. Success. Now I must survive the food.
I enter through the glistening clear doors. I hold it open letting another poor soul pass through. (One must allow fodder before them in case of attack). The air is close, and a fire undulates in silence. Chairs, padded chairs of earthy hues, furnish observation alcoves. Empty for now, they pose no threat.
I see "La Verna" ramble across the cream-colored wall: the name of the conqueror, allegedly a god of some sort. The bizarre practices of the cult invariably confuse me, rewritten incessantly. I pass the guards behind their control counters without their notice. Reaching the imposing blue doors, I have hit the final checkpoint. My rehearsals come to this crossing. I am Dover Devlin, English entrepreneur.
Pushing through the despotic doors. I produce my card, or rather Dover Devlin's card.
"Madam, how are you this fine evening?" I asked, raising the card.
No answer, as she was absorbed nose deep into a book. I Think of Hunter T:
"My blood is to thick for Nevada. I've never able to properly explain myself in this climate."
She takes and swipes it. Perfect. I leave with with a nod.
I must seize a seat, for the allocation of resources is quite unjust. Let fire and fury be my conduct, I say. Carpe Diem. I see a crowd of gawking fools pass by. Another gaggle of goofs gets up. The whole room shifts and whirls like a breathing animal, a serpent set to entangle me. I must be cunning, dodging along the alleys between tables. A flying fork whizzes by my nostrils. I can smell the curdled ranch dressing on the prongs. It lands to the side, seemingly without a target. I see an opening and charge.
I sit. Success. Now I must survive the food.