- Trapped in a medieval whirlpool (and I don’t even live in Kansas or Cincinnati).
My night is dark. My lot hasn’t come, but around the table rumours, like a Typhoon over down-town Tripoli, fly.
Our shady (ahem, not quite the descriptive term) castle-keep is about to be gated as a precursor to erecting a stout wall and deep moat of bigotry and small-mindedness to keep the serfs from disproportionately redistributing the spoils overlooked by the Grim Taxer. It seems the yokel authorities have succumbed to noble intentions, who this decade and a half past, have had it in mind, to ban serfing in the suburb. (Note: Serfing is the popular practice of unfortunates relocating worldly possessions from a place of perches to another location, via hired hands.)
But no more! No more, we say! Our dukes are up and our wits are at an end, our nobles have decided GATES (no not Bill) will bar the right of way. No thinking here - just passion to protect. So what if we are all inconvenienced, after all it is for the community of the good to be be stopped and searched and accused of moving meagre possessions in the boot of wagons as we drearily make our way to the fields of employment every morning before returning to the keep in the evening. Inside we keep them out, but from outside we are kept in, in a manner of speaking. Sensors, bars, alarms and armed response, patrols and duties, radio contact, mobile phones and police liaison aren’t enough, we must be further inconvenienced by the very souls the gate aims to keep out.
Where, oh where, can I find an apothecary with a prescription for foolhardiness?