The ruckus was the truth eating its way out of the chrysalis in the door jamb to the palace. The golden pupa burst open like a paint can in a campfire. A red, black and green spit like Jackson Pollock in a rolly hole, spattering the sepia toned sincerity for 20 miles
around. This is the creature they call, "Shinyribs." The world will never be the same. But, really, when was the world ever the same?