Mr. Percival Spokoystvieich (and yes, that really is his last name) had sported the same unshakably blissful face since his days in the nursery—like someone who’d just wrapped up a marathon shift as hipster barista of the month. At children’s parties, while everyone else shrieked with excitement or tore each other’s notebooks to shreds, Percival remained regally impassive, like some stately statue dragged by mistake into the middle of a dance floor. Yet beneath that placid “bronze,” a volcano had long been simmering: just a tad more pressure, and his unspoken emotions would have come high-kicking out like the wildest cancan.
My close friend Lucas woke up one gloomy Monday and, like a true action hero, decided to wage World War III against a menacing foe called Procrastination. He scribbled 'I am invincible!' on his wall with a marker and plastered his entire apartment with notes saying things like 'Do everything now and let the fridge cry without your laptop!' Anyone dropping by for a quick visit would have felt as if they’d stumbled into a top-secret headquarters where a philology professor was suddenly rapping, swapping out scholarly treatises for rainbow-colored time-management diagrams.
Professor Quibbles, who modestly calls himself the Greatest Brain Center of the Galaxy, spent his entire life chasing a dream that was anything but ordinary. No, he had no desire to become a top barber in an upscale city barbershop or to appear at every new hipster café launch. His idea was far more daring (and undeniably a bit peculiar): to create a realm where the hum of electronic devices would meld in perfect harmony with the soft chime of bells and the timeless breath of something eternal. On top of it all, he longed to shine as the founder of the Newly On Track Locomotive of Progress, which might sound impressive, though it remains as puzzling as it is grand.
Many believed that banishing guilt was all it took to wipe out every last consequence. But as it turned out, life had its own agenda. On one pitilessly bright Tuesday (despite everyone oddly anticipating rain), our old friend Rufus—whom my cousin insisted on calling the walking embodiment of guilt—suddenly declared:
When FacePalm Inc. unveiled its new data center, brimming with a gleaming kingdom of biometric scanners, Artemy Gordy seized command like a true sovereign. His paranoia rivaled even Sherlock Holmes: he brandished his unbreakable system for everyone to marvel at, as though sporting a superhero cape. With a confident wink at the watchful cameras, he boasted that one press of his right pinky would spare the world from a Third World War.
