It's fancy anniversary dinner time for Janet and me. We sit in our second favorite gastropub. It was supposed to be secluded from wayward eyes, hidden under the impression of an old government restricted military base that had been abandoned during the second world war.
I think I'm eating rich white hetero alien eggs. I tell that to the waiter. He rolls his eyes. His armor is a living, sentient, and enchanted armor.
"God bless the real psychos in the vibrating shoes," I tell good old Janet. She trails around with her troupe of ‘fiends’, who are invisible but always on the verge of becoming flesh. The throb in her skull and right shoulder gave insight into a tangible injury, but she couldn't remember how she obtained such a thing. The drugs are probably screwing with her perception again.
Marriage is a special kind of agony. It requires the cooperation of numerous landowners across vast areas. The story itself is deliberately ambiguous.
