I have gained a super power. That is right. I don’t think I was bitten by anything radioactive nor was I enveloped in the lusty blast radius of a gamma bomb…but I do have a new power. I can’t think of any practical applications of this power however…
I now have extraordinary (this word is confusing, linguistically…I mean, it puts “extra” and “ordinary” together…that means that it should be very “normal” and yet it means astounding…go figure) power to set off every sensor in every store in Springfield, every time I pass through them. Different stores on different days with different sets of clothes and carried objects. I have no idea what about me sets these alarms off. Other people don’t set them off. I even gave a clerk my cell phone…but it still went off.
Apparently my preternatural presence causes the phenomena. I’d like to think that these sensors, besides detecting stolen merchandise, have the, until now unfound, ability to detect super studly guys and announce to all the women present, “DATE HIM – DATE HIM!” in a loud, shrill voice. Wishful thinking yes…however the cute cashier at Barnes & Noble now knows my face as she has been there all three times I’ve set off that store’s alarm.
It’s a pain otherwise. A mysterious, unexplainable pain, but a pain none the less. I promise to use my powers for good (and maybe get a phone number out of it…).
My beautiful, indigo serpent, Lenore, has gained the famed feeding reaction of the Indigo, turning the otherwise docile snakes into true terrors. Great soldiers like to keep a kill count; famed pilots mark notches in the sides of their plains, so I thought I’d start up a count of the doomed mice devoured by the black and bottomless pit that is Lenore.
LENORE’S DEATH COUNT: Hey Kids! Mickey mouse says, “Lenore has eaten 10 mice already…and I’m f*cking scared. Hu-hu!”
Oh and finally, here is your word of the day:
nocturne n (ca 1862) : a work of art dealing with evening or night; esp : a dreamy pensive composition for the piano
Folks in the small town of Hallowsdale could often hear the haunting tunes played by the local dwarf living in the apartment above the drug store, strange nocturnes woven by stubby fingers on a plastic kazoo, while lonely eyes gazed at the crumpled photo of a childhood love that could never be.