Beautiful, sunny-day, warm; humid. August heat, no clouds, waves crashing; it’s noon-time. Kevin’s barefoot now, walking slowly at the ocean’s edge. In the distance, sounds of children playing. He sees them now, playful dots in the distance, bouncing back and forth. He’s approaching them with every step forward. He can see their outlines now, running in circles, playing tag, building things in the sand — throwing mud. They don’t see him, or if they do, they ignore him. He’s thin again, strong again, happy. Ice-cold North Atlantic water surges across his bare-feet; unexpectedly the tide shifts, water past his ankles now; he adjusts shallower. The warm sun feels good along his back, baseball cap protects his head. He’s walking north — now, he’s surrounded by the children. Young children, 7-to-10-years old by his best estimate. Far too-young to be left alone on the beach. He starts getting angry, what kind of father abandons his children on the beach?
A blonde girl, very cute, cheerful, bubbly, supernatural blue-eyes laughs. Not quite blue, not quite, almost purple; boldly, abruptly, and precociously she says, “Who are you mister?”
Kevin ignores her question, and asks, “Where are your parents?”
She laughs. “Where are your parents, Kevin?”
“I never told you my name. How did you do that?”
He asks her, “What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you should-be doing; we’re playing in the sand.”
“And what is your name little girl?”
She responds with annoyance, “Tabitha.” Then adds with surprising, tempestuous rage “and I’m not a little girl!”
“Aren’t you afraid? I’m an adult, a stranger.”
“I see that! you sure are strange alright. Strange to me. The others won’t even talk to you, you’re so strange.”
“And why are you talking to me?”
“My Father told me to, so did my Brother. They told me to teach you The Truth.”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to not talk to strangers? You know, ‘stranger danger?’”
Tabitha laughs at his questions; all the kids laugh as if they heard him — which is impossible. They’re way too-far away from him and this precocious little-girl. “You don’t want to hurt us Kevin, even if you did, you couldn’t; the only way to hurt us is to deceive us, convince us we are something we’re not. We’re too-evolved for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re gods Kevin, our Father is God, we were created in His image; we’re gods.”
Mockingly Kevin says, “You don’t look like God.” After he said these words, thunder boomed — seemed to shake the whole earth — then reverberated in the distance.
Tabitha, in a booming, thunderous voice yells, “Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!”
All the kids encircle Kevin now, running freakishly-fast — their blurring feet kicking-up sand, digging a trench around him. A sand tornado begins forming, with Kevin at the apex, from their created wind current. All the children chanting in-unison, pointing at Kevin’s dress-pants, and yelling in one loud, reverberating voice, “Pants on fire!” “Pants on fire!” “Pants on fire!” “Pants on fire!” “Pants on fire!”
Kevin’s pants begin feeling warm — they start to smolder — smoke — his genitals begin to burn. Panicked, he runs into the ocean, dives into the frigid salt-water. He’s in deep-water now; swimming effortlessly — I’d sure like to body surf. A wave forms out-a nowhere — Kevin blissfully, masterfully, rides the huge wave in.
Read more: PRIONS