Matt was engaged in a pitched battle with militant jaywalkers when my astral communication arrived. Nary a flinch did he exhibit – for such mastery has he of his kung fu – when the hedonistic scofflaws capitalized and gave Matt a flat tire, unshoeing him and infinitesimally altering his previously pristine balance.
Open retreat available to him, Matt knew the volcano demanded an infractionist sacrifice and stood his ground. A flurry of unreproducible kung fu motions and the jaywalkers were on their heels.
The deadly ram headbutt sent the first perpetrator to his desert. A fluid serpentine motion into his shirt pocket and an acrobatic flip and thrust, and the second jaywalker found Matt’s Pigma Micron had pierced his heart.
As the second villain’s limp form satiated the volcano, its god erupted gratitude to the kung fu master, spraying the smoke-shaped forms of the Shift House characters. In confluence with my second astral telegram, the silhouettes gelled into narrative form. Matt ran home, ate a kalua pig to renew himself, and then completed the fiction’s journey from electrical impulse to hard copy with his trusty pencil.
I had a calzone.
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