The Chosen
"Mr. Auernheimer ?"
The group was the walking, breathing definition of "ecclectic" : a Matt Dillon lookalike showing some chest hair through the unbuttoned, floral shirt ; a Neo-from-the-Matrix dude wearing black under leather, completely impervious to the summery Sun and general beach-y atmosphere ; another fellow in gray robes with a large, funny hat and finally a couple of slender Japanese teenagers in sailor outfits, the sort that ended up popular with overweight gringos of the third millenium because of their infatuation with Japan, where they had been used as widespread cultural subversion resulting from that culture's post World War reexamination of its infatuation with Germany, where they had been extremely popular a century prior on the basis of Wilhem the IInd's fixation on building a navy, it in turn driven by Britannia's various benefits from a powerful navy a century prior (that however didn't include preventing Muslim galley raids on its shores looking for poor fishermen's daughters to kidnap because who cares about those).
"Yeah ?" The pasty, overweight geek gently rolled over as he removed his head from his tanning reflector. "What the hell is this ?"
Confronted with such a turn of events, the ecclectic group broke into a barely distinct, overexcited chorus.
"We have a very important mission for you", spoke in grave tones the robed guy from under his hat.
"We are The Council", proffered the Neo, in all sterneousity.
"You must go and fight the Walkers now", giggled the shao-nu with pink hair, bouncing around in giddy excitement. The whole comicon convention looked at her with hurt disapproval, like she had just pretended to roll a natural 23 or something. The bitch.
"Leave me alone." grunted The Chosen before turning back to his stable, lowest energy configuration.
"Downvoted", swore the other sailor.
"Mr. Auernheimer you are humanatee's last hype." insisted the first salad.
"Remember that all I'm offering you is the truth, nothing more", explained the Neo.
"Hey why did you start without me!" whined a new addition to the psychopath convention, bewilderingly dressed in the same exact gray robes as the earlier arrival but sporting a livresque capotain in the wrong color, and under it a stylisized mask.
"Why are you wearing Gandalf robes if I told you once I told you a million times those aren't Guy Fawkes robes they're Gandalf robes" droned the figure in the funny hat.
"Fuck you beeesh it's my sweet body and I'll wear what I want!"
The words "sweet body" seemed to carry disproportionate, almost magical effect with The Chosen, for he turned towards the group suddenly and howled "Get lost, all of you!"
There was brief silence and then a barely audible "Reported!" coming from somewhere, but the threat of beach account suspension didn't seem to deter The Chosen, as it well shouldn't have. He bellowed with gusto "I've been to prison!" before tearing at his drapery to reveal a very white chest with a very black, slightly wavy at the edges black cross. The bad kind. The very very bad kind of black cross, because you obviously realise they come in kinds.
The audience gasped, and then wandered away sadly, to the inaudible tune of Moby's "In this world".
"He's a Nazi! I can't believe he's a Nazi!"
"I thought he was a Jew."
"Maybe he's under the Selbsthass spell", offered the guy in the capotain.
"They're fucking robes already, they're not a cape!"
On they droned, on they mumbled, on it went.
