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Renegade Spice Chips
d94899
It is good to shade that facade and to put on that face. The real face.
It was that last remnant of a youth that was continuously fading, unsure even of what age it was received. It was not a clear image, but something about it had density. A dark, cool night in New England. A bitter taste of NECCO® wafers lingered on the tip of the tongue. A female voice belts out, “Don't eat the candy, Ethan! We have to it home first!” The lowering of the Bullwinkle mask and running off.
Ethan. Was that his name? ..Ethan Wilkins?
That mask seemed just a little too constricting, but not by much. Its paint had faded and the whole affair was a distorted corruption, mostly white, but with brown around the eyes, nose, and lips. Red stains were abundant, almost profuse. There was something amazing about the fact that it endured for as long as it had.
The papers say “The Mud Island Mangler”, a moniker issued by an overweight, podunk sheriff. Memories of a box labeled Male, age 47 come to mind when you think of the old sheriff. He had a tendency to plead for someone that wasn't there.
The Noise grew just a bit louder in his head, pulsating through his eyes. It had to be done.
He picked up his shovel. It was a fine implement with quite the range in utility. The edges were meticulously kept sharp and shined in the dim light of the moon. The metal was heavy enough to smash the back of someone's head in, allowing Mr. Mangler to bring them to The Shack. Of course, that was a slight impossibility now the the key was lost. A shame really, disassembling quieted The Noise better than a messy kill, but these swift murders would have to suffice.
The aim of it all, however, was to stop The Noise. Mr. Mangler knew that there was only one way to truly be rid of it all, but no one sufficed. No one matched that prowess, those abilities. All he could do time and time again was accept the piecemeal that murder and dissembling offered. Only one of them came close. A young blonde. He despised her for not completing her task. She was the one that was going to shut The Noise off. He hoped, perhaps vaguely, that she would be here again.
He climbed awkwardly outside of the back of The Shack and landed with a thud. There was distinct sensations vibrating in the air in a number of directions. The sensation of others.
To the north, was a large cabin. It was two stories tall, with a stone chimney that bellowed smoke on colder nights. He noticed a large group of teenagers had rolled out of a van, vapidly yapping about the inane.
To the north-east, just some short distance from the larger cabin was a shed that constantly reeked of weed. No doubt, this shed held someone their now. Perhaps more than one.
To the east was the campsite. Mr. Mangler observed tents being sprung up earlier in the day, but he wasn't for certain if these folks had a connection to the cabin goers or not. Maybe they had split off into groups for reasons beyond his grasp.
To the far east, was Lake Evergreen, surrounded by the trees of its namesake. With the night air being as hot and sticky as it was, it was entirely possible that some of the teenagers might decide to take a dip, perhaps even swim over to Mud Island itself, a featureless mound of earth jutting out of the cool water.
Where to go first?
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