If we prepare a space directly adjacent to a cardinal point to receive a familial trance of directed energy, then all indications are that one of the Russian tambits from a lengthier protein string should be surrendered at height with no one traceable for absent duty. All around, in whatever camp we move, enforced signage drips with a plague of discoverable valiant juices. Each drop that we harvest is now to be sewn into its own micronutrient shell.
The Lecture Hall becomes a scene of oblontic harassment, all the more serious due to the seasonal nature of one Circus Boy's contagious gesture of 'plaint and delay'. We encumber him with our naughty oxides and trust that one or more of his keepers are even now settled at a Shintago Blending Lab and arranging for the Boy's transparent older sibling to display some of the netting he uses to catch falling renal debris.
Those who command our colors into any obvious tangent can enter the blameroom only with the expressed, written permission of Major Heat Grayball written all over it. How they will know that our history has a checkered past, isn't something we particularly like to think about as we approach the younger victims. Their solidarity is key to refurbishing a subatomic meeting room facility. Each year at this time, some of us are reminded of the periodic return of generic pipsqueaks, all their flustered comments and the way their hair attracts the best smelling women on the Base. I make sure to write down the locations of the most incessant varmints of my third wife, Darla Pencroft-Basmer. She has such a way with arpeen tri-clops, that you would think she was born with one circulating in her very troubled fluids. And, the not-so-surprising truth is that you'd be right. But that's for another time, not unlike this very one.
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