Something Peculiar
Prophet

Imagine the scene: there was a table, a small wooden table, more specifically a circular mahogeny table with indistinct etchings and patterns going around the edge of the edge. The table itself had lost its brilliant mud brown color to age, and what remained was a somewhat less glowy dull mud brown color.

Picture it leaning oddly to one side as a result of the fact that the absolute number of table legs that the table currently rested on was one less than the theoretical number of legs that the table should have had had some maniacal goon not come briskly along with a hatchet and lopped it off. The story associated with this incident is very tragic and therefore very unmentionable, therefore it won't be. Nevertheless, the table does serve its purpose, no matter how pathetically, of standing upright and holding certain objects on top of its no longer colorful surface.

Sitting next to this vertically challenged table sits a chair. There is something very peculiar about this chair, but we'll come to that when we get there.

This peculiar chair, peculiarity aside, is positioned in an acute angle to the already mentioned table. The particular angle is not important, but in this case, the particular, if not peculiar chair is worth discussion. It was originally constructed on some type of undefined wood-like matter, though it was so thoroughly rotted in current times that the casual observer would be hard pressed to be identify it as such. What is identifiable is the copious amount of paint that had been wrapped around the whole thing, to the point where the entire furniture piece was supported by the paint alone. The job in itself is hideous, but it did come with a (disturbing) history; someone had previously nibbled on one (and only, for some reason) of the armrests, which exposed the layers of paint in a sort of ring-like formation. Similar it was to tree rings, given the exception that tree rings does not come in puke green and bile orange, and can be linked to a certain period of time.

Only an Advanced God could ever stand a chance of recalling what taste-forsaken era spawned such a mess.

What was peculiar about the chair was the object sitting atop it. Or rather, the person...

The person atop the chair claimed to be a biped, a she biped of average height for her rather unusual condition. The actual absolute height cannot be easily determined by passers-by, and the subject of the matter does not have measurement as part of her daily schedule.

The girl, if she could be called that, sat on the chair rather uncomfortably, although this had little to do with the chair itself and more with a secondary problem that presented a more urgent crisis.

The problem was this: her face was itching.

It was the kind of itch that crossed the itch of a non-vicious mosquito bite and that of a mosquito-like person one would wish to swat breathing heavily in one's face. It was an itch that deserved scratching. It was destined to a short and futile life of being scratched.

The girl, sensing the itch and its destiny of being scratched, raised her hand in an upward motion to smite the mild discomfort that had manifest itself on the surface of her skin. The hand moved gracefully in a calm, semi- circular arc, teeming with a radiating power that could be compared to the fist of the Divine Being seeking to annihilate the Cockroach of evil that fitfully crawled across his floor of Purity and Truth. Up, up, up it flew toward its foe.

The itch took one look at the approaching hand and panicked. The hand took one look at the approaching itch and continued its course. Any moment now, the hand would achieve its purpose of movement.

Unfortunately, the hand failed. Miserably.

Odd, thought the hand. Odd, thought the girl controlling the hand. Puzzled, the girl attempted another scratch. The hand proceeded in the same motion.

Again with the failure. Hrmm...

This frustrated the girl to a certain extent. The itch was irrevokably irritating, but that she couldn't remedy this nuisance exacerbated the problem by an exponential degree. Calmly, she renewed her onslaught on this malignant malady of itchiness, only to discover that clearly nothing was happening in effect.

The girl entered desperation mode. The hand, now no longer its calm and portentious self, flailed about in a disorganized manner. First now to the left, then the right, no... now this way, now that, make this work, make that, no, this... that, ARG!!!! This was all utterly wrong...

To be continued...

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