Xanax

A call in the distance. Echoing halfway across the country to Cambridge, Massachusetts. Ringing faintly through the air, the Logs heard a whisper – “I’m already tracer.” The historians, shocked by this prophetic cry, said to each other, “Someone has been chillin’ in Cedar Rapids for far too long. We must bring him here.” In the fall they were approached by a guy in Adidas joggers, an ironic NASCAR shirt, and an MIT Rocket Team Jacket. He called himself Alexander “Zander the Salamander, no Slander” Hodge. Like a majestic bird of prey in heat, he wooed them with his mating dance that hailed from the legend of Fork Knife. His arms shot to either side, palms down, as his hips jutted to the left. The historians were already enthralled. Then, he turned his palms up and moved to the right. The heavens shook. The historians began to cry and fell to their knees in prayer to this new messiah. They began to speak in an attempt to discuss his beauty and grace, but before they could utter a word, the mysterious man pulled a sticker-clad longboard seemingly from nowhere and flew off into the night, avoiding important conversation. His laugh followed him like a shadow, a bubbling brook that falls down, down, before he lets out a shriek that only the velociraptors could understand. The historians transcribed the encounter into an ancient book and idolized him in a temple that looked eerily like Simmons and thus was born the religion of Zanderism.