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The Owner of Swampscott

“Hey! Hey you!” A maga-phone stationed atop a modified hover-round scooter rattled with great trembling vibrations as it magnified the shouted words. The vehicle whirred into view complete with a roll cage, thick tread tires, and an old blue haired operator snuggly secured in her mobile cocoon. She was like a task force sargent past her prime but still capable of fulfilling her duties due to fancy technology.

She was beckoning a young man who wore his hat tilted in a precariously placed backwards direction on his head. He was also wearing a skin tight muscle shirt— purposefully sagging his new store bought roughed up and faded jeans like he didn’t care. Big, untied Air Jordan’s flopped and scraped on the pavement as he sluggishly strolled through Swampscott— utterly unaware that his mere presence in the city is an intolerable stain according to its owner, the blue haired buzzard, the one circling her newest carcass of human waste.

The boyishly dressed man turned to face her.

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