The Hunt Is On.

You shake off the ridiculous persona of George Harlequin. Ye gods, what were you thinking when you created him? True, he is inconspicuous, but every word he says grates on your last nerve. And the sweaters. The fucking sweaters.

Sometimes you wish the voices weren’t there. Then you might actually be able to think clearly for once.

You step out onto the street and breathe in deeply. The sharp scents of deceit and crime fill your nostrils.

The voices swirl around you, ready for a bloodbath. You smile at them and heft Humor over your shoulder. They will not be disappointed.

You stride off down the street.