Текст книги "The Earth Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Finally, he speaks, his voice a low rumble under the blanket. “You okay?”

It feels like such a strange question after the rough way he manhandled me to safety. And yet, I sense he’s not just being polite, but genuinely wants to know that I’m uninjured. “I think so,” I say, flexing my sore ankle to check for a sprain. It’s twisted, but not sprained. Definitely walkable. “I need to get going,” I add.

“That guy will be back with more Enfos,” he says. “We need a better place to hide.”

“Better than a blanket?” I say, not meaning to make a joke, but unable to stop my mouth.

He laughs softly, which sounds even stranger under the circumstances. “It’s a special blanket,” he explains, which doesn’t explain anything.

He stands up, simultaneously lifting the blanket off of me. The relatively fresh air hits my sweaty skin, immediately cooling it and raising goose bumps. “Here,” he says, offering a hand.

I’m not one to deny a gentleman his small pleasures, so I take it, allowing him to pull me to my feet. It’s probably just my imagination, but his fingers seem to linger on mine for a split-second longer than is necessary. Ever so slightly, the world lightens, as dawn begins when the panel lights on the cavern roofs switch on. With the added light, I see his face for the first time. He is young, perhaps my age, perhaps a year or two older. He’s also indisputably handsome, with a strong jawline made rugged by the dark stubble of a three-day-old beard, dark brown eyes, and full, pink lips that appear to smile even when I know they’re not. When he tosses the blanket in a pile next to the dumpster, I realize why the Enforcer missed us. The blanket is covered in garbage, to the point where you can’t even see the fabric. With us under it, it would have just looked like a slightly bigger pile of trash, nothing worth investigating.

“Very clever,” I say.

“They only ever check the dumpsters,” the guy says. “They’ve got a lot of firepower, but they’re not too bright.”

“I take it you’ve done this before?”

He smiles, flashing a set of nice teeth. “You could say that. Let’s go inside.”

“The door will be locked,” I say, pulling on the handle of a rusty metal door. As expected, it doesn’t budge. “See.”

“Don’t tell me something as small as a locked door will stop a girl as motivated as you,” he says, laughing at me with his deep, brown eyes.

I shrug, not knowing what to say. I’m too embarrassed to tell him I’ve never done any of this before.

“Don’t worry, I could tell you were a caker from a mile away,” he says.

I frown. “Caker?” I say, confused.

“Rich kid. Family with money. Cake eater.”

Uh oh. This is the moment that always occurs when I try to make friends. It’s happened to me my whole life. I meet new kids, try to be nice to people, but eventually they find out I belong to one of the few wealthy moon dweller families, and then—

–they hate me.

Except for Cole. He was never one to act like the other kids. But now, my short acquaintance with this guy is over, because he guessed where I come from. We didn’t even get to the stage where we exchange names. He might even turn me in to the Enfo.

“I’m Roan,” he says.

Huh? I just stare at him, waiting for the punch line, waiting for him to spit in my face, maybe even throw stones at me, like kids used to do before Cole put an end to all that.

He stares back, a goofy smirk resting easily on his face. “This is usually the point where you tell me your name, but if you don’t want to…”

“My name?”

“Yeah, you know, like what your mother hollered out when the doc smacked you on the butt after you were born. Or did you want me to guess it?” Before I have a chance to say anything, he continues on, as if we’re not hiding from the Enforcers in a deserted alleyway. “Hmm, I’d say you’re a Violet. No wait, that’s not it. You’re Trudy, right?”

Is this guy serious? “Umm, Tawni.”

“That was my next guess,” he says. “So, Tawni, you coming in, or what?”

I gaze down the alley, expecting to see flashes of red as Enforcer reinforcements charge around the bend. But all I see is gray. Hiding out for a few minutes might not be a bad idea. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes,” I say.

“Just enough time for breakfast,” he says, sticking a hand in his pocket and pulling out a thin metal stick. “Step aside and make sure you’re wearing your safety glasses—this might get messy.”

Not having a clue what he’s talking about, I move away from the door. With a couple of deft and experienced twists and turns of his wrist, he jams the stick—which I now realize is a pick—into the door’s lock. I hear a clatter and a click and then the door opens, creaking slightly.

I just gawk at the door. “That was…” I murmur.

“Awesome, amazing, fan-freaking-tastic? Any of those will do, take your pick. Get it—pick,” he says, holding up the metal wand.

I nod excitedly. “All of those things. It was really impressive. But is it legal?”

“Is whatever you’re doing legal?” he retorts.

Even though I already know I’ll have to break a number of rules along the way, his question still stings. Breaking the law doesn’t come easily to me. “Fair enough,” I say.

“After you,” he says with a sweep of his hand. His second gentlemanly act.

I enter first, instinctively flicking on my flashlight amidst the inky darkness. The beam doesn’t cut very far through the murk, but provides enough light to illuminate a concrete stairway immediately inside.

“Not much to look at, is it?” Roan says, stepping inside and easing the door shut. He reengages the lock by twisting a latch. “But it’s still home.”

“Your family lives here?” I ask incredulously.

“My family sold out to the Enfos a long time ago. I didn’t stay with them after that. They never really liked me anyway.”

I turn and take in Roan’s shadow-darkened face, searching for a lie. There’s none to be found. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m leaving my family, too.”

“Follow me,” Roan says, barely brushing against me as he slips by and begins climbing the steps.

When we get to the top, he reaches back and grasps my hand, tugging me gently into a mostly-bare room off to one side. A thin bed pad and lantern sit on the dusty stone floor against one of the cracked walls. The stones, while mostly gray, have a greenish tint that looks anything but natural. The air smells musty and old and faintly of stale cigarettes. Releasing my hand, he says, “This is it. Home, sweet home.”

I’m shocked. I’ve seen plenty of poverty in the Moon Realm, but this is beyond poverty. Roan has nothing. He should hate me for all that I have, but he doesn’t seem to. Unless he’s been biding his time, acting nice to get me inside, where no one would ever hear me cry out—

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, an eyebrow raised.

Did he just read my mind? “How did you—”

“You look like someone just punched you in the gut. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right not to trust people…like me. But I’m not like that. I just wanted to help you escape, to talk to you. I don’t get the chance to make a lot of friends.”

Oh. I feel rotten for having the thoughts I did. I can understand why Roan would be lonely in this place. It almost feels like a prison, only without bars on the windows and doors.

I want to change the subject. “Hey, can you teach me that lock-picking trick?”

His eyes light up. I’ve hit a happy topic. “Sure! It’ll come in handy on the streets.”

The streets. The phrase sounds so ugly, because…well, because it’s true. The streets are my home now. I shrug it off. “Great,” I say, trying to sound excited.

Grabbing my hand again, he pulls me outside the room and closes the door behind him. Looking so seriously into my eyes that it makes me blink faster, he says, “See, most locks have metal pins inside, the trick is to get them to all line up, as if there’s a key in there…”

For the next twenty minutes—or is it an hour?—he teaches me, showing me sometimes, holding my hand to help me other times, and finally, letting me practice on my own. Just when I think I’ll never get it, the lock clicks open!

“I did it!” I exclaim.

“Well done,” he says. “You’re a good student.”

“You’re a great teacher,” I reply.

There’s an awkward silence when he ducks his head sheepishly, as if not accustomed to being complimented.

“Well, I…” I start to say.

“Do you want some breakfast?” he asks suddenly.

“I should really be going…” I say.

“Another time then,” he says, “do you know where you’re going to live?”

“I have to leave subchapter 14,” I say, realizing too late how stupid it is to share my plans with anyone else.

“Leaving? But why?”

“It’s a long story,” I say, not wanting to reveal any more than I have to. “I need to catch a train.”

His dark eyes slowly brighten as he cocks his head to the side into the beam of his flashlight. After a few seconds chewing on his lip, he nods, as if he’s made up his mind about something. “I’ll take you to the station,” he says. “You know, for safety,” he adds.

“You really don’t have to…”

“I want to,” Roan says, shrugging.

Well, if he wants to… “Sounds great.”

Although I’ve lingered far too long at Roan’s place, we make up a lot of time on the way to the train station. Roan takes me on a crazy and convoluted route that I could never repeat on my own. Although we get within eyeshot of Enforcers several times, we never get close enough to feel threatened. By Roan’s side, I feel safer than I thought I could possibly feel away from home. Even though I don’t really know him, I feel like I trust him. If he wanted to hurt me, he already could have. It feels good being with someone, and I’m dreading reaching our destination. It’s weird: I’m actually sort of enjoying running away while I’m with him.

But all good things have to come to an end.

Standing on crumbles of broken glass, we can see the entrance to the train station from our vantage point at the end of a shadowy alley. I’ve missed the beginning portion of the morning rush from our subchapter, but there are still plenty of late arrivers to keep things busy and hectic, which is exactly what I need.

Here goes nothing.

“Thank you, Roan,” I say, meaning it. His kindness was an unexpected—and life-saving—part of my journey to this point.

He shrugs as if it’s the kind of thing he does every day. “Sure. So there’s nothing I can do to change your mind about going?” The smile that accompanies his words generates a burst of heat on my cheeks. I certainly wouldn’t mind looking at his face a little while longer, but I’ve already delayed this too long and I’m afraid if I don’t take the first step now, I never will.

“This is something I have to do,” I say, trying to make my voice as deep and bold-sounding as I can.

He nods, like he already guessed my response. “Be careful, Tawni. If I’m lucky we’ll meet again.”

“I hope we do,” I say, wishing I could drag the moment out a little longer. I’ve never liked goodbyes, even ones from people I don’t know very well—or in this case, at all. But I manage to square my shoulders, face the train station, and find a tiny splinter of courage somewhere in my bones. I’m doing this to atone for the sins of my parents. If I can find Adele Rose, I’ll tell her the truth about what they did to her family, and I’ll do everything in my power to make things right.

My legs are suddenly like lead, but even that can’t stop me. I lift one foot and force it forward, following it with the other foot. With each step I feel lighter, as if bits and pieces of a heavy burden are crumbling down from my shoulders. I feel alive.

I slink into a stream of adults making their way to the train station. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I avoid looking at them for fear that “Alert! Delinquent!” might be written all over my face. But no one seems interested in me. They all have their own problems, which they face by trudging to the train every day, zombie-like expressions on their blank faces, hoping that they’ll earn enough today to feed their families. Yeah, they’ve got bigger concerns than a sixteen-year-old girl who should be getting ready for school.

And then I’m inside the train station, so quickly that it almost feels like I blinked out of existence and back into it, not even passing through the arched entrance. I nearly forget to prepare my ticket and travel pass until I notice a woman who’s scrambling for hers. Swinging my pack around, I locate the ticket and forged intra-Realm travel authorization card under a sachet of rice.

The automated turnstiles loom ahead, spinning as each rider scans their ticket and, depending on where they’re going, their travel authorization. I’ve never ridden a train before, never left my subchapter, so I watch each traveler, memorizing the order of things. Ticket first, then pass, green light, push through the gate. Not so hard.

There are only five people in front of me, no more than ten seconds. The moment of truth. Will there be flashing lights and blaring alarms? Or will the green light blink, beckoning me through to a new life?

Four people. No wait, three people—two passed through while I was worrying.

Green light. Two people.

I realize I’m sweating profusely from my forehead. Make that my armpits. And kneepits, if there is such a thing. Everywhere, really. I’m a sweaty mess.

Green light. One person—the woman who was as unprepared as I, who now has her ticket ready, just like me.

My heart’s pounding, both in my chest and my head. My knees feel rubbery, as if my bones have melted under me, congealing into a moldable substance that wobbles and totters like a two-year-old who still can’t walk properly.

Green light. The woman passes through the turnstiles and for a moment the metal rungs look like scythes, cutting her to ribbons, severing her limbs like scissors against the arms of paper cutout dolls. I blink away the thought.

My turn.

I just stare at the ticket scanner, wondering what fate it holds for me. My mind goes blank. What goes first again? Pass or ticket? I know the answer should be obvious, but I just can’t seem to remember. My mind is more muddled than bean stew.

“Move it,” a gruff voice says from behind me.

If I don’t hurry I’m going to draw a lot more attention to myself than I want. Ticket first, I remember. I scan my ticket, which I already know is valid. A dull beep sounds and a robotic voice says, “Please scan your travel authorization now.”

I’m dead. I know it. I should just turn and leave now, before it’s too late. Forget the strange and annoyed stares I’ll get from the other passengers. Forget the shame I’ll feel inside for having chickened out. Go back to Roan’s place and let him teach me the ways of the street.

“Hurry up, kid!” A different voice this time, angrier than the first, and identifying me as a “kid,” which is exactly the sort of tag I don’t want. The instinct to run grows stronger and I start to turn, but then something pops into my head that stops me.

A face from the news. I watched it with my parents on the telebox, knowing full well it was them that had created this news story. The face of a young girl—my age. Adele Rose. Black, obsidian hair. Pale skin, like mine. Fierce, emerald-green eyes. Full lips. Pretty. A look on her face that could only be described as ugly. It was a face that told a tale of betrayal, of having her parents sold to the world as traitors, of being ripped from her family and sent to the Pen until she turns eighteen, and then to an adult prison, the Max, until the day she dies. All because of the actions of my parents. Not me—my parents. And yet I feel responsible.

The memory of her face stops me. Only I can turn her expression pretty again.

I turn and scan my fake travel pass, ready to be arrested if that is my fate.

The light turns green.

I can’t help the smile that lights up my face as I stride forward, placing my hands on the push bar, which is cold and hard, but with rounded edges, not like the razor-sharp blade of a scythe at all. I did it—I’m leaving the subchapter at long last! I’m so full of elation that I literally feel bubbles of air rising in my chest, lifting my posture higher, buoying my spirits. I start to push the bar forward.

“Wait just a minute, kid!” I hear from behind.

When I turn I see red: a uniform, clean and bright; an Enforcer, his Taser raised, aimed directly at my chest; his face, a duplicate of the man I saw smoking a cigarette on a moon dweller stoop earlier this very morning.

“I told you I’d catch you,” he snarls, pressing a button on his Taser.

Just before the snake of electricity pulls me into unconsciousness, I think, I’m coming, Cole.

~THE END~

The Life Lottery

A Story from Year Zero

Originally posted in Furthermore: an Anthology.

Today is The Lottery. It’s been the only thing anyone’s talked about for the last week.

My mom said it would never happen, that the government would come to their senses, come up with a new plan. My dad said the whole world’s gone crazy. Now that the day is here, it looks like my dad was right.

The guy on the news says that the countries aren’t speaking to each other anymore, that it’s every country for itself. That just seems sad to me. I once had a pen pal named Sophia from France. I worry about her. I wonder if France has a Lottery too.

The Lottery in the U.S. is “a bag of baloney,” my dad says. By that I think he just means it’s not a good system. I pretty much agree with him, because I don’t want to be split up with my family. The way it works is that every person of every age has the same chance of getting picked. The government says that’s the only way it can be equal, because if they did it by family, the smaller families would have an equal chance of being selected as a larger family, and it might mess up the number of people who are allowed to go underground. Only three million can fit in the caves, they say. No exceptions! I can still see the President’s finger pointing at the camera, as if he’s yelling at me personally.

I might be only twelve years old, but even I don’t think it feels like the right rules. I mean, what if my dad gets picked and not my mom? Or my sister, Tina, and not me? Or what if everyone except me gets picked? What would I do then? Who will I live with until the meteor comes?

But there’s no arguing with the government people. Once they decide something, that’s it. End of story. Only for the rest of us, it’s not the end of the story—it’s only the beginning.

My mom gave me this diary this morning so I could “share my experiences and pass them down to my children.” I think she’s being rather optimistic, but I didn’t tell her that. I’m scared I’m not doing a very good job with it so far; I mean, I haven’t even told you my name. Anna Lucinda Smith. There—I guess that covers that.

At school I have lots of friends, but it’s not like I’m stuck up about it or anything. I just get along with most people, I guess. Not that we have school anymore. Ever since the announcement, pretty much everything’s been cancelled. My parents won’t even let me go outside, because everyone’s going crazy and breaking into stores and stealing stuff and all that nonsense. I’ve seen all that on the news, but not in person. My neighborhood has mostly been quiet, with people just staying inside, spending time with their families. It would actually be kind of cool getting out of school for a few days if it weren’t for the whole world-ending thing.

It’s been a little boring, too, so I started playing this game I made up. I cut up a hundred strips of paper. On four of them I wrote “Anna”, “Tina”, “Mom” and “Dad”. Then I put them in a bowl and mixed them all around. With my eyes closed, I take turns picking out a name. After reading it and marking it on a score sheet, I stick the name back in the bowl and try again. Most of the time I just get a blank piece of paper, which means some random stranger was selected to go underground. But every once in a while I get a hit. So far I’ve picked random strangers eighty six times, my mom twice (she’s always been the lucky one in the family), my dad once—and even I got picked once. Only Tina hasn’t come up yet, but I think that’s because she’ll be the one to get chosen in the real Lottery. Anyway, the game passes the time.

My parents are out for some registration thing they had to do in advance of The Lottery tonight, and my sister is in her room listening to her iPod and obsessing over some guy that she hopes will get chosen with her. She thinks it would be so romantic to go underground with this guy, like something out of a movie. Although I’ve seen the guy, and he is cute, this isn’t a movie. In any case, I’m alone again so I play my game for another two hours. I pick out one hundred and thirty three strips of paper.

None of them have a name on it.

Not a good sign for tonight.

I’m thankful when my parents get home because I’m feeling depressed about the game. I don’t tell my mom though because she’s been telling me all week not to play it.

Mom makes lunch—salami and provolone cheese, my favorite!—while Dad scoops ice cream into tall glasses and pours Root beer on top. All the while they keep up a constant chatter about how nice and sunny it is outside—cold, but nice—how we should all go in the backyard and spend time together later, and how beautiful the leaves are now that they’re changing. I’ve never heard them so cheery, which scares me.

After lunch, the day whizzes by, like it’s sprouted wings and flown south for the winter. Tina refuses to come out of her room. I don’t feel like going outside either, but I finally give in to my parents and follow them to the backyard. We sit cross-legged in the grass for a while, which feels weird and awkward, probably because it’s something we’ve never done before—I mean, why would we?

Dad has a ball, which we pass around. Each time someone catches it, they have to say something that they love about the person who threw it to them. Although I know what Tina would call the game—“Totally cheese ball!”—I kind of like it. Not only do my parents say some really nice things about me—my dad says I’m “as pretty as a flower,” and my mom says my sense of humor “is as good as your father’s,” which is saying something, because Dad’s pretty funny—but I also get to hear them say some nice things to each other. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I’m disappointed when the game ends and we go inside to eat dinner.

Tina finally makes an appearance, although she doesn’t talk much, just types out “later texts” on her phone, which I guess are texts she’ll send to Brady—her guy—after The Lottery is over. She says they’re all positive messages which will help their karma, so they both get picked. I don’t ask her what messages she’s sending for me so I’ll get picked. I also don’t tell her that she never gets chosen in my game.

Dinner is delicious: my mom’s famous meatloaf and creamy mashed potatoes, drowned in brown gravy. Hot fudge sundaes for dessert this time, compliments of Dad.

When we finish, we get dressed in nice clothes, as if we’re going to church. Dad says there will be lots of photographers at each of the local Lotteries, taking pictures for future history books. I wear a medium-length purple dress with amethyst beading that Tina once admitted makes me look “all grown up.” When we meet downstairs she gives me a nod as if to say, “Nice choice,” which makes me smile. She, on the other hand, tries to slip past Dad in a tiny black skirt and a tight, low-cut red blouse. He makes her change twice before she finally gets it right. I guess even on Lottery Day, he’s still a dad.

Dad wears his best suit and a pink tie that almost makes him look like another person. Mom is in her favorite blue gown—the one with all the sparkles.

Like everyone else, we walk to the school, where The Lottery will be held. It’s slow going, because Tina and Mom are wearing heels, clopping along with short strides. I’m glad I wore my ballet flats.

Dozens of other families are doing the same, and we greet many of them with cheerful cries of “Hello!” and “How are you?” They answer with the same forced cheerfulness.

We arrive at the school and enter the auditorium through the propped-open double doors. Dad hands some papers to man at a desk who then signals us forward. Already the hall is half full. Ushers direct us up one of the aisles and into the next available row. Normally I’d want to sit by one of my friends, Maddy or Bridget or Haley, who I spot sitting a few rows forward, but I know tonight is meant to be spent with family. Even Tina sits with us, which she never does these days.

Despite all the greetings and warm wishes that were exchanged outside of the auditorium doors, once inside, no one speaks to each other, or even smiles. It’s like we all know that the others are our enemies, people who will strip us of our winning ticket in The Lottery, take away our family and friends.

Not long after we arrive, the auditorium fills up. I stare at the empty stage, where I once stood dressed like a tree in the school play, The Wizard of Oz. Now it looks barren and desolate, like a hot, dusty stretch of desert. Mom checks her watch and shows it to me: one minute until eight o’clock. Time for The Lottery.

She squeezes my hand and holds on.

All is silent in the hall, not even a whispered comment breaking the quiet. Footsteps echo onto the stage as a man who I recognize from TV moves across to a podium in the center. A local politician. The mayor or governor or something like that. The man in charge tonight.

When he reaches the stand, the microphone cuts his face in half, so he lowers it until it’s even with his lips. He speaks, his voice magnified and deep, like the real Wizard of Oz from the movie.

“Residents of the Sawcutter School District of the great state of Pennsylvania. Today is a momentous occasion in the history of our great country.” Although he looks up every couple of words, his voice sounds stiff, scripted, like he’s reading off of something, perhaps a hidden paper on the podium. “I know you all must be scared, because you have little control over the random selection that is about to be made, but remember that this is an opportunity to defeat the cosmic powers that strive to wipe us off the face of the earth. For the first time in history, a species has had the wherewithal and foresight to prepare for just such an event. We will not be forced into extinction! We will fight to survive, whether above or underground! We cannot be defeated!”

He spouts the last three sentences with such conviction that it’s like he’s leading a pep rally, trying to get us all pumped up for The Lottery, but his words fall flat on our ears and we just stare at him. Mom glances at Dad and he rolls his eyes.

“Well, uh, I guess we should get started then,” the guy says when no one applauds. “First, the formalities. The names of all five thousand, two hundred and forty six residents of this district have been entered into a database, sorted alphabetically by last name. When I press a button, the computer will randomly select a name from the database, simultaneously removing it from the list. I will read out the name. I ask that you try to keep your celebrating to a minimum so that I can move on to the next name. As announced by the President of the United States a week ago today, each citizen of this country will receive a one in one hundred chance of being chosen, and therefore, I will read out fifty two names for this district. Good luck.”

He pauses and I remember my game, remember how excited I got when I opened my eyes to see that I’d picked one of my family members. If I magnify that feeling by a million, that’s how excited I know I’ll be if all of us get picked today.

He reads the first name: “Helen Chambers.”

Somewhere behind us a woman squeals in delight, but I don’t look back. That name is foreign to me. I close my eyes, wait for the next name.

Another stranger—a blank strip of paper. No one worth getting excited over.

Ten more names—ten more strangers. I flinch with each one. And then—

Maddy gets picked! My eyes flash open and I look where I know she’s sitting. She’s smiling as her mother puts an arm around her shoulders, hugging her, but she also looks kind of scared and I know why: no one else in her family has been chosen.

More names, more exclamations of excitement, more blank names on white pieces of paper. Although I’ve tried to keep track, I’ve lost count of how many names have been called. One of my neighbors gets picked, a guy who’s always been nice to me, bought Girl Scout Cookies from me and said hello when I walked by, but I realize I’m not happy for him…because he’s not my family. Like the rest of the people around me, he’s the competition.

Three, four, five, six names: not us. Enemies.

There’s a pause and my breath catches in my throat. Is that it? Has The Lottery ended so quickly without warning? Will my family go home without a ticket, left to face the meteor with the rest of those not chosen?

“Ten spots left,” the man says, and I let out my breath. A warning. A bone. A shred of hope. Almost like a redo, like in my game when I pick out a blank paper, I can just put it back and try again. Ten more tries.

“Morgan Rivers.” A stranger in the front row.

“Willow Meadows.” Sounds like a made up name.

“Robert Dorsett.” Who?

Seven left.

Three no-names and then a man my father works with. Three left.

“Meghan Taurasi.” Never heard of her.

“Brian Henderson.” An older man two rows in front of us tips his brown bowler hat at the stage.

One left. He pauses, scans the audience, as if he’s taking in each of the faces, knowing full well he has bad news for most of us. Ten seconds go by and I wonder if I miscounted, if Mr. Henderson was the last name the computer has for us.

But then he clears his throat and speaks: “Anna L. Smith.”

~THE END~

2) An Interview with Perry the Prickler

Originally posted on Lola’s Reviews . Awesome questions by Lolita Verroen, who conducted the strangest interview of her life.

Lolita: Hi Perry! I am so excited to have the chance to interview you today! You are definitely one of my favorite side-characters of Fire Country!

Perry: Well, thank you for that. I wish you’d tell the natives, they can be extremely sour and unpleasant sometimes, bitching and moaning about their little “problems.” Meanwhile, they’re the ones trying to chop me and my brothers up to make salad or stew or some other such local dish.