Post-Pandemonium
Unfixed handbills ghosting through the depopulated streets. In the air, the mixed scent of cotton candy and vomitus. On the dead-grassed commons, a long, lone strip of sawdust, blood-speckled.
A formerly-green town left brown and forlorn. And no sign of the party responsible, save for the line of ashen puffs rising above the leafless treetops of the outlying woods--and the unlikely sound of calliope music dopplering off into the October night.
Something wicked that way goes.
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