Martha's Mist And The Magnificent Flying Cigarette Machine

In between the museum half point marathon marker and gothic mansion start/finish line, where champions bury their skeletons, a one room residency owned by medalist Milan, occupied the secluded remote property. Bitterness filtered throughout the accommodation, especially when word got out Gazzetino stoked the public informing fire, lighting up the Magnificent Flying Cigarette Machine ‘C word bomb’ issue.

“It’s not just an exhibit,” mumbled the aging resentful character as she enjoyed her entrepreneur product Martha’s Mist successful smell, “just like you sweet dear the magnificent cigarette machine can take flight at any time and give someone personal satisfaction.”

Deciding to breathe fresh air, Martha unlocked the single door hinge, stepping out, entering the enchanting forest setting. Hearing a disturbance down the hiking trail, Martha called upon her genie secret qualities, wondering if she could lure unsuspecting visitors into a social security blanket trap.

Exploring the wilderness two unsuspecting youths, yearning vanquishing a selfish habit fetish, adjusted their wildlife touring baggage, “I need a smoke,” Todd noted, “Brennan be a man, hand me one.”

“I forgot them back at the hotel,” Brennan answered.

“Well, that is not good,” Todd responded.

“Looking,” Brennan completed the sentence when a helpful figure emerged.

“So, you want a mystical dragon puff, or maybe book a trip with a good bud,”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the two acknowledged Martha’s curiosity,

“Give me an hour or so, and if you stand by that fir tree, you will see a shipment containing your fantasy contraband, grace the skies impersonating beachside aerial advertisements.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Martha confirmed disappearing.

Excitedly, Todd and Brennan headed down to the instructed location, opening a few brews along the way. Martha ventured in another direction and soon approached the cemetery, still sending the same guilt memo.

“Buried here are the skeletons dedicated individuals who kept physical bodies and minds at a competitive level only to find a destructive distraction result, tempting their winning obsession,” Martha read the plaque before entering the mansion.

‘What do you mean you allowed two college students to waltz below and confirm the highly classified art piece downstairs,” an elderly voice yelled, “Master Norman.”

“Superior Mother,” Martha beckoned, “since the cat has left the theater, may I make a request?”

“Oh, Martha, my dear friend,” Superior Mother replied, “why certainly.”

“Give me the key, Master Norman,” Martha demanded and Superior Mother agreed, glaring, presenting a serious facial expression.

Moments later, Martha grabbed wedding cake remains; feeling overpowering sensations validating commencing, conquering the special room. “Well, well if it isn’t the Magnificent Flying Cigarette Machine.”

Reposing, innocently not knowing its destructive potential, the Magnificent Flying Cigarette Machine watched the intruder carefully navigate the premise, “are you ready? Your pick me up is here,” the miserable debt-ridden affluent character chuckled pulling out a Martha Mist sample perfume package, “go Magnificent Flying Cigarette Machine, enjoy life.”

As the fragrant cologne romanced the mechanical commentary making the statement fall in love with mayhem, Martha left the premise, knowing exactly what she accomplished by spraying out the area.

Lights flickered, engines roared, and Martha left the door open allowing the Magnificent Flying Cigarette Machine an escape route. Positioned inside the dining facility being served energy juice, the resentful rebel observed this monstrous legend travel in drone style up the staircase, triggering the electronic entry.

“Was that the Magnificent Flying Cigarette Machine,” a loitering counter patron slurred, “I thought it was just a wise old tale.”

“Not anymore,” Martha smirked, accomplishing her mission.