The Journeymen wandered the cliffside. They weren’t hostile, but they definitely scared me, especially since I had to look at their little community on my commune to work.
Every morning, I’d drive down there and see their pale bodies, their top hats, their missing faces. They were my personal infestation, a town devoted to standing roadside and offering me homemade ice cream.
I ignore them; to accept their offers would be to join them.
Still, every day, they hold out smelted silverware and naturally-frozen ice cream in self-fashioned buckets.
Beckoning.
I must resist.
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