Centuries hence when civilization has collapsed and survivors comb through our ruins they will come upon a large house. Searching the dusty rooms, they will find no books. The historian among them will remove his hat and whisper, “Their Kindle collection must have been enormous.”
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His only hope is the final ritual. He alone knows this secret, passed from his master as she lay dying. This ritual is most pleasing to the Bright Lord. He reaches out to caress the dark Plas-Tick surface then strikes it twice in rapid succession. Percussive maintenance.
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There is a groan, and the Bright Lord plunges backward. The cheap wall of the Ancient Ones has given way and fallen. The wolves are frightened by the crash and disappear. The Historian turns to his surviving men and shouts, “The Bright Lord has changed the channel of our fate!”
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As they escape back into the ruins, the Historian stops and picks something up. It is a piece of the Bright Lord, a fragment of divinity. He turns it over in his hands and pockets it, a sign of favor. They head home to their village, these last survivors of the tribe of Costco.
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