In the end, the decision is an easy one. Why drive all the way to Los Angeles searching for a bottle which may or may not even exist when the solution to your woes could be right here in town? No, the shopkeeper has given you a concrete lead and you're not about to waste it. Pulling the address card out of your pocket, you put Penelope's boxy little car in gear and head for the cultist's hideout.
And 'hideout' is indeed the appropriate term—the address leads you to a desolate machine shop on the outskirts of town, complete with boarded-up windows and long-since-faded graffiti. Indeed, you'd have been certain this place was still abandoned if not for the several sets of fresh tire tracks leading around the back of the facility. Parking Penelope's car some distance away, you silently observe the compound and ponder what to do next.
Though you're understandably eager to be free of the accursed collar and back in your own body, the unrelenting and increasingly uncomfortable tug of Penelope's generous assets is enough to give you pause. The mountains of flesh growing sweaty and itchy beneath your sweatshirt serve as an unfortunate reminder of your previous blundering encounter with matters of magic. You wonder if perhaps it would be wise to exercise a little more caution this time around. You could observe the cult from a distance first, become acquainted with the members and their customs before gradually insinuating yourself into their group.
Then again, such a process could easily take days—or longer. You don't exactly relish the thought of remaining trapped as a squeaky-voiced, topheavy nerdette for such an extended period of time, especially if such caution turns out to be unnecessary.
Copyright 2000 - 2025 21 x 20 Media All rights reserved. This site is property of 21 x 20 Media
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.82 seconds at 9:48am on May 07, 2025 via server WEBX1.