He was but a young monkey, a scrawny boy with a broken hat and a record of petty theft. Yet they heard him speak the words of philosophy, and saw that he saw with insight, dug at the heart of things. Beneath a cloak three sizes too large for his frame he hid a single feathered wing, the curse of a warlock, and a book of fenric verse that could send a crowd into hysterics, or lull them into peaceful sleep. So many hands were reaching for him, thrusting him up to the podium. So many blinding bright towers spiked the sky overhead. When he coughed at the mic it reverberated for a full minute, each block sending back a little chuff of sound softer than the last. They wanted him to say something, to change the nature of their narrative lives.
"Hoodoo," he whispered, and a demoniac grin lit his small face. "Hoodoo!" he snarled, and broke open the book, and began to read the first beautiful words his eyes fell upon. The throng erupted into passionate gyres of jubilation, as squadrons in formation flickered rapidly by overhead, dropping indiscernible packages that glinted with some kind of promise.
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