Day 15: 
There was unconscionable frolicking and merriment and the gents and I got to talking. We found agreement.

We couldn’t stand idly by while the intellectual contagion of unsanctioned mirth and revelry threatened to countermand the stiff upper lips and tightly-clenched cheeks that duty demands.

We knew we had to stamp it out.

But how?

We tore our imaginations asunder, bruising and molesting our very grey matter in search of some perfectly banal evil we could levy against our chipper foes.

Then we struck upon it, that stroke of genius. It was John-boy‘s design. That mad devil! It could very well work.

It all made sense now.

We got into position and bellowed the war-cries bestowed upon us by our esteemed houses and fortunate lineages. 

The band struck up. And we began our sinister enterprise: 

A conga line without end. A writhing, insatiable ouroboros of human flesh and whimsical queuing. 

Fearful smiles flashed but soon faded. Now they would know the meaning of suffering.

Hopeless hands held hardened hips as the sinful serpent consumed all. 

They never saw it coming.

Hey, Do You Know the Way to Shell Beach?

Tim Royan