Wrong on so many Levels

It is only eighty degrees out, the sun is blocked by most of the buildings and there’s not much in the way of direct shine to blind people. Yet, nearly everyone wears sunglasses anyway. It’s not so much of the UV protection from burning out their retinas or even drying their eyes, but there’s that “hey aren’t I fucking cool” mystique that drives an individual to spend more than ten dollars on some aluminum and dark plastic eye shields. It’s that “hey look at me syndrome” where people are sporting their Oakley’s to the person next to them hoping they think “damn, those are so cool I want a pair.” And it’s those sorts of people that keep this economy running.

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Bartholomew and King Obake had been upon the rough and turbulent waves of the dark oceans for several weeks. They had set sail from the ports of the tainted emerald city at the end of an oppressive summer, the sun beating down on their backs as they had fastened the rigging and hauled vast wooden chests of supplies onto the small craft that would take them across the blackest oceans and towards the west.

Together they had launched from those ports, turning as the boat had ploughed through the gentle surf and waving at the city, its central castle surrounded by drifting galleons searching for a place to set anchor amongst the crowded streets and busy markets. For a moment Bartholomew had thought he could see the October gardens in the shadow of the castle’s turrets and towers but the view was snatched away all too soon and they had found themselves on the very ocean itself, the pale blue turning to darkest black.

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