OOM

[_righthandman_]

Chase leaves the men's room with a spring in his step. Winning is ten times more fun when the game's that close, and as far as he's concerned, even more fun than that when your opponents are crazy Scientology rejects, or whatever the hell those cultists were. He looks around for Lyrae

Comments

[_mother_dearest]

The room is filled with a murky opiate smoke. The be-robed cultists are kneeling around a dais hastily constructed from risers gleaned from the junior high school's choir some time in the late 1970's.

On the top of the dais, there is a pile of pillows where Lyrae was failing miserably at lounging, still managing to maintain her rigid posture. A cultist had a bunch of grapes wrapped in the perforated plastic where they had been bought from Wal-Mart by Lyrae's side.

A flash of alarm on Lyrae's face as Chase burst in, the cultists rising menacingly. She gestured grandiosely towards him, her voice boomed, loud enough to leave one's ears ringing.

"...Behold! The Prophet!"