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A Worse Idea 90

Prometheus hadn’t been to the Superbuds headquarters in a couple months.

He hadn’t meant to let things slip like that. But he’d been so busy, with Anne and Katie and the guilt. He’d been running down to his workshop, taking care of corporate interests, buying and selling stocks.

So much had happened. He’d been so busy. Still, here’s one of the biggest truths he knew: you had to make time for friendship. Work could be important and so could all the other things in life. It could leave you with little time for friends.

But without friends, you were sunk. And sure enough, Prometheus was beginning to feel sunk. He parked his car and walked up to the Superbuds headquarters. Took out his key and slipped it into the white door.

Walked into the hall, with its wood-panel floors. Made his way to the community kitchen, where Merchant Mariner was dripping wet, eating a bowl of cereal. He looked ridiculous: a hairy, hulking white guy, with broad shoulders and an Irish face. Gills lined his neck.

It was still pretty early in the morning, and the sun was rising. The red light filtered through the small kitchen window.

Merchant Mariner didn’t look up from the bowl as he said, “How’s it going, black bear?”

“Tall, white, and handsome.” Prometheus felt better already.

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