Journals of a Psychopath

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Smithson will become the same as his father.

The Farmstead

Tiptoeing through the house, Smithson and I wended outside Caldwell was in the driveway.
      “Where are you off to?”
      “Smithson fancies a burger and fries.”
      “It is a bit late for that.”
Conveying us down his private road and the Buick was smooth Smithson signaled to his grandfather.
      “Do you want something to eat son?”
      “Yeah I need to settle my belly.”
We were in the higher world and no detour was usually allowed, it was his first encounter, and I waived the rule.
“You know that stopping off at the diner is not the usual, because it is your, unveiling, I have made an exception.”
      “Thank you father, the food will calm me down, my stomach it is tied up in knots.”
      “I know it was the same for me the first time I sacrificed, but I got through it the same as you will.”
      “It was worse for you father you were on your own.”
The Diner

Driving into the lot, I stopped the car, and he strode from the vehicle.
      “Are you going to smoke father?”
      “Yes son.”
Kicking a tin around the piece of land and he hovered, Smithson was irritated. When I was done, we proceeded into the diner.
      “Behave as normally as you can,” I said.
      “I will try.”
Widening her mouth, Logan the server was fat. She wanted my body and Smithson assumed the innocent quality I taught him.
      “Burger and fries and a couple of sodas,” I said.
Logan scurried to the cooking section. Commandeering a booth and the diner was just about deserted, apart from an old woman who showed off fingerless gloves. Clutching a cart as if her life depended upon it and she glanced periodically. Muttering the old dear's tea cozy hat was askew and her long gray hair escaped from it.
      “Your future is bleak,” the crone said.
      “It is not as bad as yours.”
Folk said she could foretell the future.

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