In the tiny little town of Prosperity, Oregon, right in the middle of an endless sea of rolling green hills and where the wineries flow like Dionysus's own personal chambers, there's a saying that always goes around about how life in the unincorporated hamlet tended to pace itself:
"Around these parts, you're either straight as a rod at dawn, or still as a corpse till noon
Today, a young man rests contently in his cot, deep blue bed covers enveloping him in a fuzzy, soothing cocoon, ready to sleep like the dead.
That it, of course, until a distant rumble quickly brought him at his slumber.
If anyone had been there that morning, they would have been awestruck at the speed at which the man leapt of his bed right at that moment, his mane of golden-blond hair trailing behind him like a streak of lightning as headed straight for his closet, digging out a velveteen orange jacket and a pair of fuzzy blue slippers to splay over his set of pjs.
Without a pause, he rushed out of his bedroom, past the narrow corridors of violet tree-patterned wallpaper and down the steps, not even stopping for a moment to grab a bite to eat from the kitchen or at least stop by the showers to take care of his lingering bed hair before stepping outside through the backdoor patio and into the endless swath of green fields that awaited him, marred only by an all-too familiar set of dirty, muddy brown footprints that led towards his house, each deeper and broader than the last, as he waited what was inevitably to come.
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