Awesome does as Awesome does best and appears in the Streets to speak to his peers. The manner of his arrival is, to say the least, unadulterated-awesome. So awesome, in fact, that it is beyond description. Indescribable, like. And stuff. Men, women, and children across the globe would hear tales of it for years to come. And would wish with all their hearts to have been present at such a time of pure perfection. But alas, they never would have been. Queue sad faces and a string of suicides. Close curtains. Everybody cries.

The crowd gathers, as it is wont to do, and Awesome raises his arms high above his head and smiles. Such a warm smile. A loving smile, even. A smile of awesomeness. Obviously. Cuter than a little baby kitten sleeping next to a little baby puppy, both wearing little baby sailor-suits or something. How sweet. It's no wonder doves and unicorns and snowflakes follow in his wake. Except without the unicorns. The fable hasn't started yet.

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Rourke! I am ever so happy that you have all gathered to listen to me speak. I have promised great things, and Awesome always delivers. True story. And I come before you today to share with you a fable. My story, I hope, will be much appreciated and loved by all. More so than that of my 'competition', Louie-the-Bull, whose own tale seeks to garner more admiration than mine. Which clearly will not happen. But I am happy to indulge him in this mockery of a contest."

With another of his charming smiles, and now a twinkle of the eyes, Awesome takes a seat in the middle of the road and motions for his audience to make themselves comfortable. And they do so. They like to follow Awesome's command. Makes them feel special. But they're really not. Although Awesome hasn't the heart to correct their mistake. Not because he's nice, but because he's evil. Get it? You'd have to be very extra special to see through that linguistic trick.

"My story starts where most stories start: at the beginning. With a boy named Harry and a girl named Georgie. Now, Harry and Georgie were brother and sister, and like all children, were disrespectful and bratty little shits. Whilst their hard-working mother and father, those productive models of society, strove to feed and shelter themselves and their ungrateful spawn, Harry and Georgie spent their time throwing rocks at each other and eating everything in the cupboards. Like I said, disrespectful and bratty little ungrateful shits-for-spawn. The little girl was probably a little whore as well. They all are. Fucking kids.

"After a very strenuous and stressful day of laborious work, Father came home to find Harry and Georgie beating Mother with sticks. And laughing all the while. Appalled at such disgusting behaviour, Father pulled his children away from the poor, defenceless, and sobbing woman who liked nothing more than to spend her free time baking pies and cakes for the family and their friends. See? A fine lass, she was. But did the midgets care? Hell no. Selfish. Assholes. Whatever's the opposite of sugar and spice. That's what they were.

"With a justified and righteous fury, Father towered over Harry the bastard and Georgie the bitch, and demanded for them to leave the house.

"'GET OUT! HOW DARE YOU?! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!' he screamed. H and G glanced at each other, smiled with glee, and turned to the usually-kindly-and-loveable white-haired old woodcutter.

"'Toss off!' Georgie croaked, her mouth no doubt still rough and sore from her afternoon escapades with Harry and the lads. And she ran out, flippantly flipping-off the shocked man whose face didn't know whether to stay beet red or turn ghostly white. And Harry, the incestuous mini-pimp, followed her out, with not just his legs but also his beady little eyes, if you catch my drift. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. As disgusting as disgusting can be. Which is about as disgusting as. And then some. With crap-for-sugar on top. Or something.

"When Harry caught up with Georgie he pretended to trip and accidentally-on-purpose grabbed at her chest to steady himself. The lecherous little tyke. Georgie laughed. She found his infatuation amusing. And thought that telling her father to toss off and beating her mother with sticks were both hilarious. This is why I hate children and want to shoot them in the face and set them on fire. No manners. Rude. Inappropriate moral sensibilities. Or, rather, a lack of the same. But such is life.

"'Come on, brother! Let's go and have some fun. I might let you do that unspecified-thing to me again. And this time with cream, if we can nab some,' Georgie purred to Harry, who perked up at once, before making a dash into the woods which stood beside their home. Or, rather, ex-home. Because they've been kicked out, right? Harry followed suit. But without the suit. Poor family and all. Tuxedos were above their price range for personal attire.

"Once inside the dark, mysterious, and probably magical forest of possible-impossibilities, Harry's sight left him. Kind of. It was all overgrown and dark. Difficult to see. Expectingly. He pushed through the leaves and branches and bushes until he reached a clearing. No Georgie. Sad face for him.

"'Georgie?! Where are you?' he shouted with a tremulous voice. No reply. Then some waiting. Still no reply. Another sad face. 'Georgie?!' again with the tremulous shout. Again with the no reply. Again with some waiting. Again with the still no reply. Again with another sad face. Repetition is dull.

"But, then! He saw something! It was brown. And shoe-looking. He ran up to it. A shoe! Georgie's shoe, no less! 'Georgie?!' he shouted with renewed fervour. His gaze crossed the view before him, scanning for a sign of his sister. And, then! He saw something else! It was also brown. And also shoe-looking. He ran up to it. Another shoe! Another of Georgie's shoes, no less! 'Aha!' he exclaimed, thankfully breaking the monotony of routine. 'She's leaving me a trail!' He picked up the second shoe and continued to run in the direction the trail led. Which was further into the forest. Obviously. You can't have a good fable without a lonesome child running deep into a dark, mysterious, and probably magical forest of possible-impossibilities in search of a sibling who is, voluntarily or not, leaving a trail of clothing behind. It would just not be cricket, now, would it?

"With a mad dash further and further into the woods, Harry followed the trail which lay before him. After the shoes came the socks. After the socks came the scarf. After the scarf came the gloves. After the gloves came the jacket. After the jacket came the top. After the top came the trousers. As more and more of Georgie's clothes were found, the more and more excited Harry became. And not just because he would be relieved to find his sister alive and well, and himself no longer alone. Again with the disgusting things of disgustingness. Again with the 'fucking kids'.

"And then suddenly, with all the suddenness of suddenity, Harry found himself before a house. A house in the middle of the forest. A house in the middle of the dark, mysterious, and probably magical forest of possible-impossibilities, to be exact. A house made of bread, with sugar windows and a cake roof, in the middle of the dark, mysterious, and probably magical forest of possible-impossibilities, to be even more exact. How enchanting. This fable is getting tasty. But still not at all tasteful. We're criminals, after all. We like things to be a little outside the box. At least, proper criminals do. Are you a proper criminal? I am.

"But back to the tale. There Harry was, standing before a house made of bread, with sugar windows and a cake roof, which stood in the middle of the dark, mysterious, and probably magical forest of possible-impossibilities. And holding what amounted to almost Georgie's entire wardrobe, figuratively speaking. Momentarily forgetting the totally immoral fancies he had been entertaining about his sister wearing nothing more than her underwear, Harry dropped Georgie's clothes and ran up to house. It smelled good. Really good. Really very much good and stuff. He inched closer, centimetre by centimetre, for reason never plays a part in these fables, and took a bite out of the wall. It tasted good. Really good. Really very much good and stuff. With sugar-for-sugar on top. Or something."

And then suddenly, with all the suddenness of suddenity, and therefore shamelessly repeating the story-telling narration, a horn honks and brakes screech. Awesome, quick as a flash, which is actually very quick, jumps to his feet and dives to his side. A car had come a-driving down the street and had almost ran him over. Which would not have been a good thing. Oh, no. Not at all. But Awesome, being awesome, was able to avoid such a cruel and terrible fate. Praise be to him.

"Wow. That was close. I almost got deaded. How sucky would that be? Awful. Absolutely awful." He picks himself up, brushes himself down, and smiles to his audience, who were clever enough not to have made themselves comfortable in the middle of the road. The nerds.

Awesome, once more subject to oblivious naivety, returns to his seat in the middle of the road. And makes himself comfortable.

"Okay, where were we? Oh, yes. Harry the mini-pimp of a bastard and Georgie the little whore of a bitch, the disrespectful and bratty little ungrateful shits-for-spawn, had beaten their likes-nothing-more-than-to-spend-her-free-time-baking-pies-and-cakes-for-the-family-and-their-friends mother with sticks and had told their usually-kindly-and-loveable white-haired old woodcutter father to toss off before gallivanting into the dark, mysterious, and probably magical forest of possible-impossibilities, where they separately find a house made of bread, with sugar windows and a cake roof, which both smells and tastes really very much good and stuff, with sugar-for-sugar on top, or something, like.

"Harry heard a voice, for that indeed was what it was. 'Harry, over here!'. He turned and saw wearing-nothing-but-underwear Georgie patting a unicorn. See? I told you that there'd be a unicorn. Unicorns are awesome. All beautiful and horsey but with a really cool horn on their head. I want a unicorn. I'd call it Brian. It's a good name for a mythological equine.

"'Isn't she beautiful?' Georgie asked the open-mouthed and drooling Harry, who after a moment to compose himself, turned to the great winged mare, for in this tautologically fictional fable, unicorns have wings. Even more awesome. He looked it up and down, and then down and up.

"'It's okay,' he murmured, his eyes back on his sister. Disgusting.

"'Why, thank you for such a kind compliment,' the unicorn sarcastically remarked. For this is indeed a fable, and it is required that fables feature animals, plants, inanimate objects, or forces of nature which are anthropomorphized, and illustrate a moral lesson which may at the end be expressed explicitly in a pithy maxim, to plagiarize the definition. And the moral will come later. But for now, the talking unicorn will suffice.

"And with that, Brian, for that was indeed her name, trotted off into the overgrown branches and bushes, and out of sight. She was having a bit of a tantrum at being called only 'okay'. The vain and attention-seeking mule. But no matter. Her purpose had been served. No more need for legendary creatures. Once it was out of sight, and so out of mind, Georgie ran over to Harry and gave him a hug. And felt a stick in his pocket. Or something.

"'I'm glad you found me. I left a trail behind for you. You can't keep up with a horse, after all.' She gave him a quick kiss and felt an even bigger stick in his pocket. Or something. And then turned to the house made of bread, with sugar for windows and a cake roof. 'I wonder who lives here? Maybe some old woman for us to beat with sticks?' She sounded gleeful. Because she was. Obviously. Being a child, and therefore an immoral monster, and all. They like to be mean and nasty. Fucking kids.

"The little whore grabbed the mini-pimp's hand and dragged him towards the front door. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK onomatopoeiacally sounded the thrice-knock. They waited. And then the door opened to reveal an old woman. She had green skin. A long crooked chin and a long crooked nose. With a wart. A pointy hat and tangled black hair. A billowing robe. And a broomstick. She looked like a witch.

"'Oh my God, you're a witch!' shouted Georgie.

"'Oh my God, you're a witch!' shouted Harry.

"'Oh my God, you're children!' shouted the witch, who hurriedly tried to shut the door before the evil menaces could run in and then run amok. But failed. For H and G were too fast. Young and nimble, like. In they ran, kicking the witch in the shins before she had a chance to defend herself from the demon-horrors. Yes, children are demons. Servants of the Prince of Darkness himself; that satanic-type fellow. With red skin and horns. Children also have red skin and horns. They just hide it behind an illusion of angelic nimbus. Crafty, they are.

"Once inside the house, the brother and sister started making a mess. As they do. It's always been a wonder why it is that little people like mess. Some say that they make a mess because the young need to explore the physical world, understand about texture, colour, and all the other senses, and allow for them to develop creativity. These people are idiotic morons. Children are messy because they are disrespectful and bratty little ungrateful shits-for-spawn demon-horrors. True story. It must be stamped out of them with regular beatings and verbal abuse. If your sons and daughters do not cower when you enter the room then you have failed as a parent. Unfortunately, Mother and Father were very poor a mother and a father, even if exemplary people in their own rights. But you can't blame them for the sins of their children. Harry and Georgie must take full responsibility. And be ended. But, no. People are too soft. But such is life. To repeat.

"'Please, be still! No, don't do that! Please, no!' the witch squealed as the twins, for the bitch and the bastard were indeed twins, ran at her and began to beat her with broomsticks. She covered her head with her arms and stooped low to avoid the blows. But failed, again. They beat her further and further back, back towards the kitchen, where the sweet smell of gingerbread wafted from the open oven.

"As they pushed her further and further towards the roasting, toasting, flame-ridden oven, an evil red spark flared within the eyes of Harry and Georgie. Their skin went red, and the shadows of their horns could be seen dancing across the far-end wall. See? I told you. Children are demons. Horrors. Evil little minions of the devil. If only they'd been euthanized with rocks soon after birth. Awesome can only dream.

"But, no, they had lived. And had become a little whore-bitch and a mini-pimp-bastard. Beating up an old witch with her own broomsticks. About to push her into her own fire. Probably.

"'Hey, Harry, on the count of 3. 1, 2, 3!' Georgie shouted. With an almighty double-push, the duo succeeded in sending the woman falling into the roasting, toasting flames of her oven. In with the gingerbread. Harry slammed shut the door and sat on the floor beside Georgie, who was watching the screaming host try to claw her way out. And failing. Yet again. There's only so many times I can exclaim 'fucking kids'. Now is a good time to do it. Fucking kids."

Awesome stands up and stretches his arms. It's been a long story. A quality fable. He yawns and faces the audience, who are rapt in attention, hanging on to his every word. He stretches his legs and yawns again, before sitting back down to finish off his tale.

"As the night went on, and the witch's body continued to burn in the oven below, Harry and Georgie were busy in the bedroom. Having fun. Doing some unspecified-thing. And with cream. Just as promised. They slept well that night. Exhausted from their adventure. Full of gingerbread snacks and sugar and cake. But unfortunately, for them, and fortunately, for everyone else, being children, they're stupid. And forgot to turn off the oven. And so as they napped quietly in each other's arms, the house burned to the ground around them. And then they went with it. Hooray!

"And so what is the moral of the story, you ask? Quite simple, really. Children need to be shot in the face. True story. And stuff. Like. Or something. Oh, and set on fire. Which, luckily, happened this time. Happy face!"

Awesome stands up again, raises his arms high above his head, and smiles. Such a warm smile. A loving smile, even. A smile of awesomeness. Obviously. Cuter than a little baby kitten sleeping next to a little baby puppy, both wearing little baby sailor-suits or something. How sweet. It's no wonder doves and unicorns and snowflakes follow in his wake. Except without the unicorns. The fable is all finished now.

And then he does as he does second-best, and disappears from the Streets after speaking to his peers. The manner of his departure is, to say the least, unadulterated-awesome. So awesome, in fact, that it is beyond description. Indescribable, like. And stuff. Men, women, and children across the globe would hear tales of it for years to come. And would wish with all their hearts to have been present at such a time of pure perfection. But alas, they never would have been. Queue sad faces and a string of suicides. Close curtains. Everybody cries.

Louie walks up to Awesome after listening to the entire story

"That story was quite entertaining and I enjoyed it!"

Louie tips his hat

"My hats off to you."

Louie kindly turns and continues his day

 That moral is awesome. Bravo

Awesome grins at the compliment. He likes being complimented. It makes him feel all worthy of compliments and stuff. Which he is. Obviously. Being awesome and all.

"Thanks! Awesome is happy to have entertained you. I feel all warm and gooey inside. Like calm and quiet butterflies in my stomach. Lovely."

Awesome grins some more before reaching into his Pocket of Awesomeness and pulling out an orange. He likes oranges, our Awesome does. He finds the name to be a right mind-fuck. Was the fruit named after the colour or was the colour named after the fruit? Who knows. Which, although sounding like a question, really isn't. Hence there not being a question mark. I'm a clever narrator who understands this distinction. The only one suitable to document Awesome's awesomely awesome life of awesomeness and awesomity.

True story.

Wraith grinned.

"That's one long story bro. Quite good, you seem to like the same style of narration as me, but the size is way bigger. Keep bringing in your stories,"

and tips his hat before setting off to make his god-knows-how-many-erth kill.