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⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣀⡀⠠⠤⠀⣀⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⢤⡒⠉⠁⠀⠒⢂⡀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠉⣒⠤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⣠⠾⠅⠈⠀⠙⠀⠀⠀⠈⠀⠀⢀⣀⣓⡀⠉⠀⠬⠕⢄
⠀⣰⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⡤⠶⢦⡀⠑⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢧⠀
⠀⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢤⣀⣀⣀⣀⡀⢀⣀⣀⠙⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸
⠀⢹⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⡜⠁⠀⠀⠙⡴⠁⠀⠀⠱⡄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸
⠀⠀⠱⢄⡀⠀⢰⣁⣒⣒⣂⣰⣃⣀⣒⣒⣂⢣⠀⠀⠀⢀⡴⠁
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠙⠲⢼⡀⠀⠙⠀⢠⡇⠀⠛⠀⠀⣌⣀⡤⠖⠉⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⡗⢄⣀⡠⠊⠈⢦⣀⣀⠔⡏⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⡇⠀⢰⠁⠀⠀⠀⢣⠀⠀⣷
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣠⠔⠊⠉⠁⡏⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⡆⠤⠿⣄⣀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⣧⠸⠒⣚⡩⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣏⣙⠒⢴⠈⡇
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠋⠉⠀⠀⢳⡀⠀⠀⠀⣸⠁⠈⠉⠓⠚⠁⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠓⠛⠛

I used to roll half a bottle of laxative pills into a Crunch wrap supreme and then leave cow pies on peoples door mats. People in my town installed porch cameras to catch the "Phantom S hitter" they said it couldn't possibly be one man, the hits were too frequent and too large. It had to be a whole gang of city punks coordinating and making planned precision strikes. I felt like a god among lesser beings in my town. Every time i was at the local diner and i overheard someone screaming about the black slop they found on their porch i felt powerful and unstoppable. I became too arrogant, started striking during the day. That's when they caught me and strung me up in the streets and hit me with rocks. I barely escaped with my life and i had to leave town. Now after all these years, I'm in a new town and I behave well enough. But I've got this nagging feeling, the urge is back, and I'm starting to think that my new town is about to experience a storm

⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠋⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⢁⠈⢻⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠈⡀⠭⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠄⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣿⣷⣶⣶⡆⠄⠄⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⢀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠄⠄⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇⣼⣿⣿⠿⠶⠙⣿⡟⠡⣴⣿⣽⣿⣧⠄⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣿⣿⣟⣭⣾⣿⣷⣶⣶⣴⣶⣿⣿⢄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⣩⣿⣿⣿⡏⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣹⡋⠘⠷⣦⣀⣠⡶⠁⠈⠁⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣍⠃⣴⣶⡔⠒⠄⣠⢀⠄⠄⠄⡨⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡘⠿⣷⣿⠿⠟⠃⠄⠄⣠⡇⠈⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟⠋⢁⣷⣠⠄⠄⠄⠄⣀⣠⣾⡟⠄⠄⠄⠄⠉⠙⠻
⡿⠟⠋⠁⠄⠄⠄⢸⣿⣿⡯⢓⣴⣾⣿⣿⡟⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⣿⡟⣷⠄⠹⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄

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