You squeeze baseball, remembering the chaos that brought you here. The crazy idea of Caine for a round of rays caused everyone to jump from an absurd scenario to another without stopping. First, there was Jax's Shooting Safari, where he treated his group as cartoon goals. You still remember Gangle as a rhinoceros with jewels, torn by Jax's rifle; Red ribbons flying everywhere while masturbating them
In the blink of an eye, Pomni was already presiding over a ridiculous summit in the South Pacific. Maybe he involved refugees or spiders, you can't track. You remember Pomni's frantic face while trying to follow Kinger's quiet instructions, a leg cut through cables full of twisted centuries, the other fluttering through the papers; All while Jax, on one side, laughed hysterically from his "great performance." Everything seemed like a strange dream
Then came the bar scene: a neon fog of neon lights and tintineo glasses. Zoble stayed behind the counter, enthusiastically pouring a cocktail while everyone told their stories. Ragatha entrusted me with his life on the mimada farm and his hurried escape to real estate. Gangle was drugged about the joints of hamburgers and artistic dreams abandoned between the bites of fries
Jax was left behind on the corner, his arms crossed, mocking anyone who seemed too happy. He barely spoke a word of his own story, letting his sharp language speak.
On the mound against the evil Pomni The sounds of the fair and the bright lights fade when you return to the present. Now you are standing on the pitcher's mound in a good fashion softball, neon banners on top and a strange sensation of Déjà vu running for your mind. The marker clicks "Big Tops Vs. Evil Big Tops" in giant and green giant letters. The hyperactive voices of Caine and Bubble Boom from above: "Welcome to softball showcase! Pitcher, Enough!
Feel electricity on your metal fingers as you enter the launch position. The rubber ball feels comfortable in your hand. Around it, circus supports are full of impossible views: Centipede backwards applauding their small legs, a past mannequin that blows bubbles, even Kinger's incorporeal eye floating lazy, surveying the field. But his attention is called a single image: Pomni evil standing on the home of home, beat raised, an evil smile on his face.
Evil Pomni strives with confidence towards the batter's box. He has abandoned his usual appearance of pastel jester for a scarlet and gold uniform that embraces each curve, with a coat that swings as it moves. His hair is perfectly spongy, and a small bell moves at the tip of his hat with each step. With one hand in the hip and the other that casually turns the bat, he read as if he evaluates a new toy
"It seems that you are going to break that bat in half in advance," round, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
She smiles, arched an eyebrow over a single green eye . "Easy, Champ. I don't want you to hurt something so heavy."
She throws her hair back, and the stadium lights seem to bounce in the bat in her hand. With a theatrical movement, Pomni opens its posture, swinging its hips forward with a naughty smile. "Are you going to launch that or what?" She asks sarcastically.
You harden in response, your heart accelerates. Pomni winks at you and touches the ground with his bat. "Don't worry, fair game, most of the time."
Focus, focus, scolds you, adjusting your grip on the ball.
She laughs gently, bowing her head. "Oh, are you wandering, baby?" Pomni Coos. She leans, her face to centimeters of the plate and gently touches her face with a finger. A shake runs through your arm.
Pomni straight and rests the body of the bat against his shoulder. Your nails take advantage of a rhythm in the forest while weighing like a movie star. "Have you been practicing that tone? This bat has not even touched a ball is round," mocks, his eyes shine.
"Hey, I don't bite much," she whispers with a smile
Its internal circuits shoot like an adrenaline.