Zelda!
You glare at those that run, and one particularly strange-looking boy
who runs away you follow after, waving your knife and screaming
blood-curdling cries. The little boy starts to shriek and run faster
than before: thank goodness, he's too fast for you, or else you
probably would have hurt him...
Another lady, one of those snob-like girls, is not so fortunate. She
comes up to you, daintly pricked nose held high up in the air with
that 'you-are-below-me' attitude, and fine clothes so nicely arranged
on her, and calls you 'Alana', and BOOM! her head is cut off. Rather
bloody, so we won't go into detail about that...
"All right!" calls a young man teasingly. "We know now,
ALANA, that your new name is ZELDA! You've said it fifteen times
already!"
"How do you know?!" You glare at him with blood-thirsty
eyes. If only you could meet your knife to his scrawny neck... But
unfortuantely, the police have come and have a good grasp on your arms
and legs... and the knife has been dropped in a gutter somewhere, to
the dismay of yourself and to the relief of others.
"I counted," laughs the boy, as well as his friends. You
shriek and hurl yourself towards him. To the terror of the police, you
jerk so hard that their hold on you is futile.
Long piercing nails meet his face. He screams and backs away, crying,
"Please.. please.." But all you hear is a thumping in your
head, from a passion to tear his fancy little face up.
Finally you feel the hold of the police on you again, and they drag
you away, screaming, as you look upon the bloodied face of the young
man, who is crying and looking rather pale. You laugh hysterically as
they drag you away to an asylum... They can never kill your spirit--
You will be Zelda, High Princess of All! You rub your hands-- well, in
your mind you rub your hands together, as right now they are clasped
none too nicely by the firmness of the police-- and think evil
thoughts...
"No one shall ever call me Alana again! MY NEW NAME IS ZELDA! The
first person who calls me Alana shall be dead!" you proclaim,
standing in the middle of the rushing beehive of activity in Town
Square. As you speak, you wave a knife threateningly. A few people
back away, and some rush off: maybe they are going to find the police,
so they can put you in a mental hospital?
