5.
And so the egg did wonder. Always return to the egg Napoleon, that’s what my friend Fish Flakes used to say. So I did. I followed the egg. Into the onion. I followed the soldier into the town. I followed the Jesus into the Jewess, I followed Persephone underground.
That’s enough of that pre-pubescent poetry said Dr Cumkwickly, now, let’s move into the pork region where we can smoke.
It was a balmy night, and the wind shunted glissfully across the marbled rockwery of the Pork Region. A few dying leaferies swayed glissfully in the breezenstine. I watched a mockroach dance across the pebbleness, and a small but pungent ear formed in the corner of my eye, it was through that I listened to the next mostel roomery.
“This fliggs gotta give,” said a young boys voice, “it’s blursting bluben like.”
“Said,” a peer in response, “I’s frigg it.”
And then there was the strange but warmly sound of a bicycle pumping, a cat’s weasel, and an igloo, in F.
“Dr” I said, “I think we should investigate.”
He throwed back his shot of aspirant and wobbled in ascent. I glibbed mine, and shakily move across the now more brighter room, towards the door, and onto the patio.
The good Dr discretely pulled a revolver from a garter belt neatly concealed below his forethought and blew the lock of the motel womb next to it. And through the smoke we inhibited.
Monday, September 26, 2005
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