000a: FRONT print- Emperor Scottie

In his shadowed lair, dim basement domain,

Emperor Scottie reclines, unrestrained.

A bowl of dumplings clutched to his chest,

While killifish circle in noble unrest.

“YOU—call the vendors! YOU—sort the prize sacks!

And YOU—count the raffle tickets in stacks!”

“The Clash must thrive!” he decrees with a roar,

“...but first, dumplings. Sixteen, maybe more.”

A whisper creeps through aquarist halls:

“He loves those killifish most of all.”

Yet none will answer, none will heed—

For none but Scottie cares for their breed.

“Admire their fins!” he shrieks to the void,

As planners nod, annoyed, annoyed.

“Now file those forms! Arrange the stage!

Then read my killifish zine—page to page!”

But the people conspire, outside his lair,

To feign delight, then not even care.

“Sure, great fish,” they mutter. “Very… bright.”

While Scottie rants deep into the night.

He dreams of a Clash where killis reign,

And dumplings descend in a glorious chain.

Yet despite his rule, his imperial fist,

No mortal soul joins his killifish list.

So back he sinks to his dumpling chair,

Golden wreath tangled in basement air.

“Fine,” he sighs, “let them scoff and scoff—

As long as my dumplings never run off.