Happy and dauntless and sagacious are the Red Crimsons, dancing around in their castles while the land is overrun by pestilence and an insane quarterback market. Some citizens haven’t eaten the fruits of fandom for years, even decades. But still, the Red Crimsons strut their prosperity from the safety of their fortress.
This personality type loves to throw parties, but that doesn’t make them a good person. Private invites for only the privileged are the only soirees this type is planning. One by one, society’s elitest and least-maturely-evolved file into the masquerade. Their masks bear the likeness of grinning demons, but inside the only emotion is jadedness.
The party is held in a lavish mansion, almost as cavernous as the souls of its inhabitants. Soon, the place is filled with Red Crimson personalities. They revel and enjoy the spoils of successes garnered from the blood toil of good citizens. However, their celebration is not without creeping concern. With each toll of the hour on the ornate grandfather clock in the main hall, they pause, reminded of how the creeping tide of old age discriminates not based on economic status. When the clock rings midnight, they look and see a shroud-wrapped, wrinkled old man in the corner of the room. He regards all of them with a steely, loathful gaze. Slowly, he raises a crooked finger and points, one-by-one, at each person in the room. Upon being pointed at, a person gasps, then laughs. For they are reminded that, in fact, we live in America, where spoiled people never have to face a comeuppance.
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