settle down,
kiddies! squealed the voice of no
youth, the
so-called leader amongst a motley
crew of cowards standing on tippie-toes in earnest just for a glimpse of the clown, the so-called
rowdy ringleader of around a dozen, probably more like thirteen, insufficient throwbacks to
a clockwork orange anarchic fashion from the looks of ’em, but to a
person, if one might suggest such—sure, they’d just hoodwinked the hordes—but
each of them in the deepest were nervously bristling if not quivering with no grasp, no idea of
reality, no clue of the path, the gut-wrenching future, this man-boy cult had just unknowingly borne.
