They Call Me, The Sharkalator

Excuse Me? I'm Alive Too.

Sometimes He Seems Like A Droid--or A Drone. Fang Of Nine. Fang2-d2.

Fang’s Hand Gently Smoothed My Hair Off My Neck. My Breath Froze In My Chest, And Every Sense Seemed Hyperalert. His Hand Stroked My Hair Again, So Softly, And Then Trailed Across My Neck And Shoulder And Down My Back, Making Me Shiver. I Looked Up. “what The Heck Are You Doing?” “helping You Change Your Mind,” He Whispered, And Then He Leaned Over, Tilted My Chin Up, And Kissed Me.

Right Now, America Looks Like A Fatheaded, Shortsighted, Gas-guzzling Arrogant Blowhard To The Rest Of The World.

That's More Than Three Questions, Max. And Sometimes Whether Someone Is Your Friend Or Enemy Is All In How You Look At It. But If You Must Know, I Consider Myself Your Friend, A Good Friend Who Loves You Very Much. No One Loves You More Than I Do, Maximum. Now Listen. I Ask The Questions, Not You. You're Just Here... For The Ride. For The Incredible, Indescribable Maximum Ride.