Remember, our kind protects you Normals from the Pures. We are the rope tied between man and super-beast. A rope forever dangling from the precipice. I tap Zetania's shoulder and ask, "What's a precipice?" "A cliff's edge," she whispers. Precipice. Must be a French word.

I floor the gas pedal. The Sonoramic Commando V-8 growls like an angry tiger and leapfrogs us ahead of the traffic.

Centuries of perfectly-pitched heartbreak resound through Les' microphone as Stella and I embrace in a slow dance.

We even commissioned a smaller pair of these statues for the baggage claim area in the regular lobby. Gives all those Normal conspiracy nuts something to talk about besides the Blue Mustang. They think our statues are the work of Masons or reptilian beings. Ha.