Once Upon A Dork & Rubbery Night - Chapter 3.

3.
I jubbed into the pool of wine they pointed out to the cleft of the stradium, and felt the warm columbard grapes against my person.

“Ah, De Borteli.”

“For sure, and seven years ago.”

“Caffeine?” said Eagerly as I bubbed my head up to the slurface.

“Si,” and she prepared silver fit, then boiled a bean upon a spoon and pulling it in to the silver machine, found a hungry vein and shot the hot needle into me.

“Supreme” I screamed as the hot bean hit my front temple brine matter, and awoke my old grey from it’s confusion of sleep. “The world can eat me now Sister.”

Just then Dr Cumcwikli came in. He was wearing a bicycle helmet, in the old style, with a Roman feather to the left, and his bedraggled features spoke of a mixture of Flemish pride in his work, and a soft and slightly purple paranoia, with an apricot hint. He offered me the apricot hint on his warm palm, and I refused, singing,

“No thanks today Doctor, I got running all over me, I had left before breakfast beverages, capisc?”

“Non problemo piu privato carbinari, tu parle Siciliano?”

“Mi dispiace, no.”

“Mi scusi, io parle englese.”

“Si, par favore.”

Then “OK” he said in the broadest of outback accents I’ve ever ad eared to – thicker than a very big big thick thing, sworder than a porkish sausage.

“Now, what about this gimlet?” he squeezed from his lippery fat toothacle.

“I assume you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it?”

And I realized, in that instant, as a bat clipped my ear and bounced angrily off the ceiling, that my wife would never bleed the same again. In fact, she was the distance.