So, I was cuddling with a friend the other day. She’s been over to my apartment a few times now, and seems mostly comfortable with the place. There’s just one issue: she doesn’t like my collection of mannequins.
I’ve got a few of them. Whole ones, I mean. There are heads, hands, and various limbs scattered about or hanging from the ceiling—there are several feet that I keep out for the sole purpose of leaving prints on the walls.
My friend, let’s call her Erica, couldn’t help but to eye them suspiciously. I saw her trying to work out why flies swarmed certain mannequins and not others. I didn’t feel compelled to explain to her that some of my children were Chosen—meaning that they’d been stuffed with raw meat. That, I imagined, would have made things awkward.
What should I do, CC? You’re my only hope.
—Hogboblin (That’s me.)