Member-only story
The Fantastic Misadventure of Ethos, Pathos and Logos
It began with a wrong turn on Old Hooker Rd.
I stood quivering at the noose, my eyes staring straight ahead into the clouds sailing past the morning sun. Fog rose from the ground, as if we were in some haunted house attraction. A flying pinwheel cookie hit my head as the raging crowd raised their pitchforks and blazing torches.
“Watch it punk,” I snarled as one of the Keebler elves gave me the finger. Children gaped at us, gripping the cloaks of their parental guides who pointed and muttered what I assumed was some disciplinary whisper. This was what could happen if you pissed off the wicked witch of Old Hooker Road. Speaking of the devil, she stood to the side of the gallows, the brim of her hat pulled over her eyes. Her thin smile stretched across her creping skinned face. Her red tangled hair waved in the breeze.
“Kick the bucket!” shouted a crazed woman to my left.
“Send those witches to hell!” bellowed a man in the back.
“This isn’t legal,” called my partner in crime to my right. Logos a.k.a. Valerie, was nine years younger and several shades blonder than me. She knew everything — at least that’s what she wanted you to believe. “Not only that, but statistically speaking, it’s not the three hopelessly lost travelers who suddenly revert to…
