It was unseasonably warm and the Jack of Clubs was unreasonably cold. He walked on a knife edge between indifference and violence as the pleasant sounds of society mingled with the breeze, pushing his way through the crowd before liberating his drink from its frosty tomb. It made roads down his ashened face before disappearing into the sweat stained collar of another goddamn turtleneck. He was always wearing turtlenecks, and they always made him feel like a tool. The Jack of Clubs hated turtlenecks.



Apologies for my tardiness. Over the weekend team Leftovers wrote 150 pages. We were not happy. Writing a book of reasonable length doesn't seem as otherworldly to me any more.

As it's Tuesday, there's also an MS Paint sketch dump in the works. Go and post your doodles. This week's theme is cows.

-Tyrus Peace