It is a brisk autumn morning and the leaves circle ‘round an approaching figure. The monstrous iron gates of Castalia open wide, revealing Thomas Jackson the second; a wicked smile on his face. The Maximum Unicorn is here, somewhere, he can feel it. He thinks of his father driven mad by his own determination to experience the awesome power of this beast. And he thinks of his long suffering mother, whose lonely heart knew nothing more than pain and loss. But then, he pictures himself smiling and caressing the severed head of the Maximum Unicorn. Draining the magic and sucking the beauty from its cold, lifeless body.
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Many a man
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Folded their hand
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Angels have scorned this unicorn
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You can pretend
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Your quest will end
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In glory and fame
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Forged in the flames
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Let madness reduce you
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To quivering poop stew
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You’ll never find the Maximum Unicorn
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Percy
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| Gruvis Malt |
