The Song of Plays-with-Fire's Visit to Foleys
As sung by Plays-with-Fire: Caveat Reader

Morgan the self-centered Shadow Lord asked Plays-With-Fire for help. Asked him! Apparently someone had been dropped on his head that morning. He said he wanted to go to a shopping store called Foley's and needed a distraction while he went through the computer that the manager used. The nuwisha said ok, sounds fun! They drove there in Morgan's car, and Plays started to speak to himself while playing with the glove box. Hey, it opened! It closed!

It opened and closed again, then he said "Hi!" to the maps. It opened and closed again, and again, and again! He asked the maps if they were getting bothered.

Morgan made a noise.

The car pulled up in front of Foley's and a bouncing, bounding human shape disembarked merrily for the front door, humming a happy little tune to himself. He pushed through the front door, smiling lecherously at a woman who made the mistake of getting within arm's grasp...later.

First work. Serious business to take care of here...this place needs a shakeup!

Plays continued on his merry little way, humming his merry little song to himself as he merrily snatched a not-so-little bra from a nearby fixture in ladies' apparel. Wow...stretchy! Perfect, like a slingshot. Hmmm.... housewares up ahead.

He merrily skipped through the aisles, ignoring the blank stares and hushed whispers about "a bra" and "is he ok?" Aha! Forks, spoons and knives!

Plays-With-Fire managed to look guilty somehow as he mercilessly ripped the box open and dumped the flatware into the bra's d-sized cups, somehow letting only about half the contents fall to the ground.

A voice from behind, "Excuse me...uh...can...I help you?" What kind of voice was that? Some fear in there.

"Oh yes! I need the manager, I am sick!" the utensil and brassiere-wielding nuwisha barked out quickly as he swerved backward and rammed into a shelf-fixture. "Ahhhh!!!" Merchandise spilled to the floor, scattering bits of broken china and disturbed boxes. Somehow, a miracle, the fixture remained upright!

"Uh, sir! Oh please...oh!" the nerve-wracked clerk stammered.

Bad day to come to work, pal.

The demolitionist, just warming up, would not be thwarted so easily. He staggered and "accidentally" rammed his shoulder into another fixture, again crying for the manager, sickness, and all manner of pain and agony curable only by managerial attention. Security was a word he knew though, and the meaning was bothersome. With that in mind the retail terrorist took off running away from his victim, swinging the flatware-loaded bra-slingshot over his head like a barbarian charging his Roman enemies, and uttering a battle-cry which (unknown to the mundanes present) was a nuwisha phrase:

"Take me to your leader, Earthlings!!"

Ah it was a fun run! Children ran, old ladies ducked while young ladies hid. Electronics ahead! Uh oh...

A security guard, standing ready with hand cocked to draw a gun that was not on his hip. Rent-a-cop...gotta think fast!

"You! I need to buy a computer!"

The guard's face took on a strange shape of disbelief, the disbelief of a contortionist who doesn't quite believe he just bent that close to his crotch. It was the look of sweet confusion, but that's just a start! The next instant bra and all remaining forks, spoons, and knives went crashing harmlessly into his chest. It was harmless, but it did succeed in causing mild panic while the computer-shopping, bra-slingshot flatware-flinging assailant pelted away toward children's apparel. He got a healthy head-start and made it into the dressing rooms long enough to block the door and hide himself under the Blur. Of course he was followed, but the consternation at his disappearance (how could this nut disappear???) soon turned to acceptance that he just wasn't there.

A slow shift down to coyote form...time for Phase Two! The blurred coyote trotted calmly out, unseen and unmolested...good. He found an escalator going down.


Laying down, he allowed himself to be seen, and whimpered. Then he cried loudly and twitched like a wounded animal.


Soon a crowd assembled itself, all apathetic pseudo-samaritans, tokenly concerned for the hurt animal. "Oh the poor thing!" "Watch it, he's got rabies!" "Mommy, the doggie's sick!" Sick? Hmmm sure, never mind that he jumped to his feet and bolted down the escalator after hearing another call for security. Intercom Cures Coyote, it's a miracle!

The doorway out...hmm...the job might be almost done at this point, but the plan needs one more final touch. Phase Three! Plays-With-Fire contemplated the picture by the front door of Foley's for a second, under which was written the word: Manager. He then went out through the door and hid...

...returning later with a New Face! The store manager of Foley's strutted into the shoe department and demanded the attention of a clerk there. "You...where's my brother?"

"Uh sir? I thought you were off today..?"

"You need to call my brother right now. Have him come down here."

"Sure. What's his name?"

Hmmm...not sure on that count. Plays could read, but he didn't remember exactly what the sign said. He did remember a name he heard over the intercom though:


"First name?"

The manager's twin brother crossed his arms and said nothing further as the clerk finally relented and dialed up the intercom system.

Fire alarm! What was Morgan doing up there!? Apparently a fire got started...

"Get my brother down here right now, the place is burning!" The disguised nuwisha grabbed the phone receiver from the startled clerk, speaking loudly and clearly into it:

"Everybody get out now, the whole building's going to explode!!!"

Dropping the phone and turning a final time toward the door, the store manager's twin ran screaming and panicking out of the store, closely followed by every shopper, employee, and flabbergasted person from within. He never stopped running, not even when he hit the woods and took off laughing a howling, yipping, infinitely satisfying coyote laugh.


--David Morgan (Is that the right name?)