Semi-Daily Scribbles

The Whistling Biscuit had seen its days of long lines and painted ladies reduced to a pile of bricks. This had been the spot where eager beavers waited months to eat alongside luminaries or, on the off night, the B Team. At any rate, a generous tip given to the doorman could allow one entrance into The Halls of Enlightenment. The last stop on the circuit, The Whistling Biscuit hosted every notable sage worth his weight in prophecies. This was the reason why people clamored to get on the list. A good night promised flowing liquor, chiseled barmen, and enough brimstone and testimony to save the damned. Or, at least lessen the pain of the wicked. But prophets change their tune, and the old saws no longer penetrate like they once did. Then it's time to freshen up the act and move to a new town. One where the audience, packed in and standing, don't know they need saving. Not until the wrecking crew comes to show them the world is a mirrored, hollow ball of indifference.