"You smell that, fresh cake, sweet frosting?" A ghoulish rubber face sitted next to me demanded an answer. I ignored his pleas of validation, continuing my search for a place to hide during the zombie holocaust. As I proceeded, a lowly looking fellow took the empty seat next to me. Squeals of delight and frustrations were being emitted. I wasn't sure what to think of them, so I took the liberty of asking him to quiet down. Not more than 5 seconds after my request, the gentleman revealed a pistol that looked part shotgun and part silly putty. His down syndrome-induced grin made me think twice about my requests. A moment of whatif swept by; maybe I should have just agreed with the rubber face about the cake. Sadly, I did not have enough crazy in me to grant it. A part of me hoped to escape this predicament without a bruise, but the downs's fanny pack told me otherwise.
Allocation! Coordination!
Repeatedly, the downs mimicked my 5th grade speech teacher. I thought nothing of this encounter previously, until the fanny pack incident. Luckily, all that the fanny pack had against me was a spoon that he bent while practicing his telekinesis and a set of dentures that turn him into batman.
Goo-goo! Thruuppp!
A quick peek to my right ensured me that the cake guy was up to no good; only this time a baby was in on it. Some graphite scribbling and a trail of drool began forming on my hand. A few dots, some lines…was the baby trying to tell me something in Morse code?! Perhaps this baby…before I could continue my delusions, the anti Christ or whatever I thought it was began blubbering and drooling.
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