A Brief Portrait of Two Known Persons.

 

One claims to be the recipient of a set of facts which he can trace to their inchoate origins. The other, seemingly without the approval of his peer cohort, prefers to be seen in the company of large-fisted young ladies of a Slavic profile. Together they decide to corrupt one of our finest Companies for the private amusement of a non-compromising base, the overarching goal of which is to one day see each and every person of a prohibited flancing status be reduced to a red-light behemoth figmented in our very own shelter of frailty. I have seen both of them in action, most recently during a drive I took into the Central Highlands of Northwestern Virginia. As each one reached for my cape, I let it be known that my appetite for juvenile wariness had reached its sell-by date in just the manner they might have safely supposed. It was a warning sign, as if any were needed, that those who we previously thought could be hounded into a basalt containment regime when all others had demonstrated their profound motionlessness, could be brought to term in only the dimmest light imaginable. Sorry if that breaks anyone's iron resolve. It couldn't be helped.

When the breen is fought to a standstill, all anyone sees fit to consider, is what a guy who used to do my nails used to call, with a rare if unbastardized candor, a trial which tests our ability to hold space for the likely opponents of our lamest targets. This is how micro-sound often enters the picture. On the plus side, it can be proven, without recourse to patently feeble constructs, that a brightness on the seeded end need not engulf all who enter without life-positive support compounds. To our detriment though, when persons whose names are randomly disclosed seek to nullify each of our vain attempts at resolution, then our 'army of one' will scorch their testament in a manner that can no longer be tolerated without a blast-prevention workshop taking place during the off-months of every second year. This is why we hold you nightly inside a fraught ligature. It couldn't be any easier than that.

With the drain on our resources now verging on a full-gallop phase, we think it only fair to request that anyone who goes by the moniker of Dermott Driscoll now come forth to enable us to enshroud a phantasm in plant-based residual warning flaps. You'll find that they usually measure in the six to nine mile range. The colors will quite often shift from a tawny yellow to a frimpy aquamarine luster. The hairs, while sometimes resembling infant oyster threads, are once in a while found described in lists of risk tangents attached to the normalized flow of meta-logical umbral palace shits. Thus we go to our most taut specimens for believable succor to withstand the expected shift of pleasant balances in our most boring practice mode. No one who hasn't handled these kinds of extended farm trophies can be expected to seek a moment of rest in a fully bitten wainscott. They won't be coming back without the usual fenculic pleas. Please take just a moment to consider that. Okay.

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