"Can't even find r/craftbees," I murmured, frowning as I typed onto my phone. "What do you think?"
...
me?
"Yes," I said. "You. The mafia game M124. What do you think?"
Oh. well, I think that's all fine. No more questions. What's left is to figure out what I'm supposed to do. I've got five minutes. And I'm going down to the docks.
"What are you talking about?"
The dock was full of the smell of fish. The dockmaster was talking. I had no idea what he was talking about.
"I don't think you're making sense," the missile chimed in.
"Hey, look at me," he said, "I'm your captain. What do you think I am?"
My jaw was dropped.
"I think you're very rude," the dockmaster said. He made a fist in my direction, looking me up and down.
"But who is the docmaster?" I asked.
He is fear. Flavophobia. Mafophobia. The bane of any mafia game.
A mobster?
"You're the doctor," another dockmaster said. "So what do you think I am?"
"Shut up," I said, "I'm a journalist."
"The missile that knows knows that the game no longer knows where it is going," the missile declared. "You. Take the game to psych ward."
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But I was supposed to have a grand legacy! I was to outlast mafia itself! This is not fair! Do you have to be mean? I am a girl with dreams. I am an actress with ambitions. I am a singer with dreams. I have dreams! I have dreams! Please let me be a star! Please, I beg you!