‘Boaz is normal.’
Looking out the window, saber-toothed.
‘Doesn’t look normal. No, wait. His dentures look pretty normal. I want my money back.’
He looked like a man who would promptly secrete an alter ego from toothpicks, turn his back to his own hideous creation, and when sometimes scrubbing his toes it was always like doing heavy somersaults.
Don’t let the band get the better of you. Fairly traditional survival list on the counter: It says so.
‘Fairly mediocre live act. Not plugged in yet – mind – not really ‘unplugged’.’
‘Tip your head back, girl.’
‘Everything skirmishes in its own way.’
The live band didn’t play. It stood by. The air around it merged with the influx of other air. Probably from outside. Yeah. A cheap engagement ring shrank from the anticipation, probably also because it was on the finger of the tubby one. Adrenaline did more harm than good. Gangrene was the favorite flavor of swarthy in the viciously crossed leg. Gross comfort toys (you remember those?) forgotten in one fell swoop – i.e. pizza snuggles. Hangover cyclotron! At least for the moment. Air-conditioning.