A chief is a lion; a fireman just like you. Their helmets are their proof of battle. Every knick a brick, every ding, bing, bang a time they should have bought it, but they continued on, crawling into the hot dark. Dragging a charged 1 3/4″ line with one hand and one leg while sweeping blindly with the other set. Somehow through the violent thrashing he’s dragging along a green rook, breathing wildly, as if he has additional limbs. A chief is a lion.
He stands outside in the cold, rain, sleet, sun, heat, wind, snow, night, and day relaying information to dispatch 10 miles away at a desk. He orchestrates 35 men and is responsible for each. He’s on the phone organizing fundraisers, sending rigs off for repairs, bringing them home, or answering public concerns and questions. If he’s not in his office, he’s on the hard bay floor changing oil, checking off equipment, altering electronics, polishing the diamond plate, always preparing for the next call. A chief is a lion.
In school, you learn how to deal with others. “Play nice”, group projects, study partners; if no other idea carries from year to year, how to handle others will always be a corner stone. I hate other people, mostly. The constant one-upedness screams into my inner ear and sends current through my brain to the outer reaches of my body. I physically have to adjust in my seat or roll on a couch or shiver or shake my arms. Anything to relieve the charged feeling in my cells. If I were more rude, or more unfiltered, I’d say, “No one cares what tests you have coming up, what time you went to bed last night, I’m sure it was late. I’m sure you’re jealous of how much sleep I got. I’m sure you wish you had a class I’m in, even though we’ve all had the same classes in different combinations. Mine are always easier than yours. I get it. You’re stressed. I don’t care.” I’m not though, so I don’t.
If it’s not gunners and one-uppers, it’s wacky and fringe. And they may be worse. I do believe that for the most part, they are the way they are simply for the sake of being weird. That’s the worst kind; no real conviction, or call. Tara’s forma, everyone of them. It’s their world and we all just simple exist to elicit conversation and argument, otherwise they’d seem dicky if they went around starting disagreements and off-putting conversations with people who aren’t interested. They need a catalyst, a spark. And a silly hat, or a shirt with some inappropriate slogan written in Cyrillic is a great brick to strike the match.
Radiance is a man of average height. A man because he is by definition of years aged, an adult; However, he is pretentious and misinformed, yet aggressive when discussing issues he brings forward. His hair is a jumbled, bouncy mess of curls that he often hides underneath knit hats, each of different characterized animals. His face is covered with a spotty beard that he may never have had to trim. Radiance is wacky and fringe. He is the Jester King, Alphafringe and annoyingly exuberant. He is quick to explain why you are wrong regarding drug use or differing social philosophies. He is quick to renounce societal norms but slow to explain why. He’s often looking for the reason that isn’t “just cause”. Radiance is dull and predictable. An unremarkable grouping of hydrocarbons. As are you and I. That’s pretty radiant.