I am called Blink.
For three years I've commanded a platoon of barricades--hearty, diligent barricades--who stood through rain and wind in our occupation of the northern portion of St. Johns Bluff Road.
Ours has always been a simple mission--to guide others in times of strife and chaos.
The only threat to our mission comes from those who would usurp our position. The armies of ACME Barricades have penetrated deep into the Southside, claiming projects on streets and in neighborhoods where once, only Bob's Barricades directed traffic.
There are those in our ranks who have questioned the direction of Bob's Barricades and our very king, Bob himself, has come under fire. Treason abounds, and jealous thoughts have invaded the core of even the bravest of the traffic cones.
My fealty, however, is resolute, and I will not slander our leader, regardless of our present dire circumstance.
We became suspicious after the first migration. The great machines of progress had worked their magic on the road, transforming a dirty expanse of cracked grey into a ribbon of smooth, black asphalt. I assumed the shift would be temporary, and I sent Slash and his platoon south, to the place where the road intersected with Atlantic Boulevard and the sidewalks were still a network of cracked concrete.
I never knew they would be replaced with cones. Foot soldiers--the smallest and most mobile of our kind--were installed outside of the BP near monument. On that first night, I sent a scout to discern their identities, and we learned for the first time that they were representatives from ACME.
Progress continued. My men were moved, despite our best efforts to maintain our position. We had endured all of the petty indignities: the men who put out their cigarettes on our broad shoulders; the motorists who knocked us askance without so much as a glance in the rear view.
And then we were moved. A re-location transport moved up and down the road, collecting the brave souls of our company and replacing them with ACME cones.
Oh, how they grinned as we were taken away.
It's been nine days. Three quarters of our company have stopped blinking at night. Some have turned on each other.
Our situation is grim.
Tomorrow, I will send an emissary to the north. The machines of progress are on the move, and there is word that the roads near Mt. Pleasant have fallen into disrepair.
We shall endeavor to move our forces into position before the enemy beats us to the punch...