Data Points Re: Life in the Penciltania League.

 

Those of us in the Penciltania League are having trouble keeping pace with a retired Officer who leads us into and through the confines of a wholly owned Cave. At the direction of his Superiors, he dunks each of our protective bonnets into an invandillic copper bucket which is wheeled to and fro with its own meshlike tracking helper. Into the bucket, before the dunking, and then way out the other side, he places molded pieces which evoke imprecise reckonings on our parts. He is told through a personal device that our actions are observed, noted and dismissed. I keep my own station, but at breakfast panels I hold a paper which allows for one free visit with an engaging conversationalist. I treasure this opportunity and prepare myself with an eye for the telling detail. I've not yet mentioned about the trick which I keep locked away. Away from the others, that is. Under my own purview, access is enforced, when not actively accelerated.

The bearable afternoons come and go like anything else which renders pretexts obsolete, but not in the sense that is usually indicated in these missives. The aprons that we've been given play to our very gravest weaknesses. A likable person is often seen as expendable when emotional trauma becomes etched in a stone-like halfer. Even a female is activated when training comes to a halt. Her very hair is a gift to an unencumbered witness. We will show him our process. After that he is expected to reign supreme over all deficient cross-purposed challengers. This is a 'game changer'. We can only thrill to the yoke if every satisfied mentioner is sacrificed to the peculiarities of correct banner disposal. They tried like the dickens. Now they're all dead. All's the pity, but the Tribe's only son lives on. Just not like she insisted they would.

In a matter of seconds I am to restore a glittery object to its place of scorn in a Gallery near to our native River. I am urged to take every precaution. Still, this will not allow me to bolt mechanically, without fluidic thought providing a backdrop of sorts. This is where we return before anything else is formed. The strictures are real. Not one of our hosts is able to pronounce a simple word. The work is cut out for any Disciple who waits. But, now that they have started to breed their own versions, there is a fear that the Spirit of Industry has seen its demise come to life in an escalating pattern of secular infighting. Why do we know that this is a ticket to a sudden encirclement? We don't pretend to. It's just the base that we are given to play with. At their own wits we will keep them safe, warm, dry and crinkly. For this you will receive a chop. But not in the kisser. Please move.

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