THE SAP ADDICT OF SKY‑SCARRED PINESBitcoin / TetherUSBINANCE:BTCUSDTuti682375The Rocky Mountain Ginge was a massive, ginger‑haired mountain dweller with the intelligence of a barely sentient rock — and not even a smart rock, just one that occasionally remembered gravity existed. He wandered the ridges in a haze of confusion and Ember Sap cravings, guided mostly by instinct, vibes, and whatever direction looked “goo‑shiny” that day. This morning The Rocky Mountain Ginge woke up with a purpose. Not a noble purpose. Not a heroic purpose. Not even a coherent purpose. Just one thought, loud and proud: “Ginge need sap.” He sat up like a man possessed, hair sticking out in every direction like a ginger porcupine who’d slept in a wind turbine. His eyes were already wide — the kind of wide that suggested he hadn’t blinked since last Tuesday. He sniffed the air. “Goo close.” He stomped toward the grove of **Sky‑Scarred Pines**, the lightning‑struck trees that produced Ember Sap — a glowing, syrupy substance that tasted like caramelized sunshine and made his brain feel like it was doing parkour. The trees saw him coming and collectively sighed. One pine muttered to another, “He’s back.” “Already?” “It’s been eight hours.” “He’s getting worse.” The Ginge approached the nearest trunk with the swagger of a man who believed he was irresistible. “Hello tree lady.” The tree was, in fact, not a lady. Nor interested. Nor a fan. He jammed his fingers into the bark and pulled out a bead of Ember Sap the size of a gumdrop. It glowed. It pulsed. It whispered, *maybe don’t*. He slurped it anyway. Instant enlightenment. Instant stupidity. Instant joy. “Ginge… FEEL… EVERYTHING.” The mountain spirits groaned like exhausted parents. They had tried everything: - Gentle breezes - Firm breezes - Hurricane‑level breezes - A pamphlet titled *“So You’re Addicted to Sap: A Beginner’s Guide”* Nothing worked. Today, they escalated to **Phase Final Straw**. A low rumble rolled across the ridge. The Ginge looked up, squinting. “Sky tummy angry again.” Lightning cracked. Thunder boomed. A pine beside him burst into flames for dramatic effect. The Ginge nodded approvingly. “Tree spicy.” He reached for more sap. The mountain snapped. A colossal gust of wind slammed into him like a divine slap from Mother Nature herself. His feet left the ground. His arms pinwheeled. His face made a noise no face should make. “GINGE NO CONSENT!” He soared through the air like a ginger meteor, bounced off a boulder, ricocheted off another boulder, and finally skidded down the slope in a series of impacts that would’ve killed a normal man but only mildly inconvenienced a Ginge. He landed in a snowbank with a dramatic *fwump*. Silence. Then a hand emerged from the snow, still clutching a glowing glob of Ember Sap. “Ginge… still win.” Down the trail, a soft voice gasped. “Oh my gosh — are you okay?” The Ginge blinked up at her, dazed, smoking slightly, and absolutely proud of himself. “Ginge… maybe.”