Game of Tents: A Song of Flasks and Pizza

Chris Tomlinalmost 5 years


Aritcle written by:Chris TomlinChris Tomlin
screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-50-02-pm Wyverne of Paducah and Steve of Barbourville looked out among the vast expanse of rayon and nylon. Some day soon, thought Wyverne, all of this will be gone. Possibly Friday.  “If we are to make it to Coliseum Liquors by nightfall,” said Wyverne, “we will need to embark now.” “It won’t be easy,” said Steve, knowing that to reach Qdoba alone meant finding safe passage through the Knott Countians, who were mean, throwing things and calling travelers by cruel names. “We might find a warm meal at Bangkok House to soothe our loins.” “If we make it that far,” responded Wyverne. The Houses of Richmond and Frankfort were united when Carla hooked up with Gary last night, which made them a powerful and formidable threat, and they didn’t want to meet the same fate as the party from Harrodsburg, who hadn’t been heard from in at least four hours. “If today be our day to die, so be it,” said Steve, glinting into the setting sun. “Hand me those Fritos. We have a long forty minutes ahead of us.” screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-03-01-pm Sir Keith lay on the ground, screaming in agony as the viscous, scarlet blood left his knee, spilling onto the yellow curb. “I knew I couldn’t do it.” Too much drink had both emboldened his bravado and dulled his practicality, and as such he failed in his attempts to leap the hydrant. “Come,” said Larry. “We must breech the courts, where Sascha Killeya-Jones waits with pizza and merriment. If we tarry it will be gone.” But Sir Keith could go no further, the throbbing pain in his manhood growing from striking the crown of the hydrant in his ill-advised folly. “Go without me,” said Keith, his stomach filling with a dull ache. “I’ll meet you at the Coca-Cola Stage at dusk, where you can regale me with your tale,” he said. “Man, my junk hurts so bad. I await your return. Also, grab me a Sprite.” screen-shot-2016-09-28-at-8-03-01-pm Suddenly, as if the spectacle were from the sky itself, a gale of sound swept in from the roadways as Major Lazer blared from a vivid, vibrating yellow Pontiac Vibe pulling alongside the street. A figure stepped out of the automobile, her bright golden hair blinding in the dimming orange glow of the September sun. She stepped up to the line of people awaiting tickets. “I am known as Crystal Shothammerer, of House Chinoe Pub, of the old blood of O'Shea's,” she said confidently. “And I swear to you on this day that those who suffer in the back of the line will rise to meet your new dawn.” She fiercely ordered those who were in the middle of the line to swell as if an army to overtake those at the line’s head. Those further back in line joined together to take their new places in line, but then security told them they couldn’t move to the front of the line because these people had already been waiting there for a long time. “Get out of here,” they told her. “Who are you, even?” And with that she asked who would give her a cigarette, broke a heel and fell to the ground, her silhouette against a darkening sky, furiously screaming at everyone to stop looking at her.

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