Pie Will Be Served.

 

Those who have lain too long in a path of control are to be seen for what they so manifestly are. During the interval between the lining and then the scaling, I will approach the duly accepted one and place scripted remarks into the hand which steadies those of our tendency while we roam the byways in our best Fletcher-knit staging bottoms. I look to the side as items come up for review. They may sense a tension in my oblique which follows directly upon the word I received. With glove and comb and barling bell, no one is apt to give up on modernized procedures which have now earned us a blank, whereas before any who scorned us could be adapted for the pressure of fallen magnates. We always lead with our first, best standing pallet. And then if any of the looming practice charts are shown to be falsified, an attractive young lady may no longer find a place in our storied intrigue.

As we baste our lugs in an ornamental teething scrimmage, I am given to understand that his measurable quotient can no longer be ceded during the ritual burning of an Aspen log. We give that fire as well its due in a montage of braceleted hefts. But, however, a montage of the living code alternating under Stolbin's rule with a piece of likeable trade plankage is now roughly in a position to effect all who train under the reigning efficiency experts installed from afar by a downcast regime. In place before any of us were activated, it never ceases to register as a supreme empanelment. Our guilt may remove us to a living hallway, but it's unlikely that I will be allowed to witness the terms of the agreement being abandoned. It's as if no one thought to light the way to a frequent tomorrow. It is here in/on my brow. For comfort's sake, please abort your affection for the saboteur's ranching supervisor. I will serve them pie as well.

_____________________________