So I be sitting on the tram now rooominating on the voom voom of an insect vum damn near vomiting my self when all of a time the con sucker comes looking for sputniks. I taint got not but my spokes and my gestured whiles. So I say real calm with a jitter.
“I dropped my sputniks on the way up catchin late and all you hear.”
She poked realk uite like and ootered on to me the Passerby Law of 350.
Immediately unter rating I made a mad dash.
“You quote law to a good samaritan lady!”
I cumspurt real token like she need not hear it.
That made the toters on board real bread brew and they real reasoned then. We all got sport off that caldwell banker.
She left hunting.
Arriving at the selected distinction, I departed the tram and full forced for the lug and tackle sport. We’d arranged to pick up there.
Pit and Natalie waved me over the moment they saw me all meadow in the starlight such and such and I got real giddy. We jiggled a moment and the giggling stopped.
I thought Pit a relegated ninny the moment he opened his spotted mouth to talk but I jumped through hoops to pass him by.
Natalie and I had been through frozen tunnels together driving in the early days before the gray period and we knew well enough we’d never met in truth.
So this went down battered dean, the kutch being we must be home before the clock struck one and no man the wiser.
Pit the lookout and I the winter wacker, Natalie carried the team.
She shunted the path and I stealthied in and grabbed the snacks.
We crunched all hours that night on frisbees and cooks.
The canned sneeds, expired and tappered, went to the dogs, who immediately vummed, but they needed something poor snaps.
Fellows came by hard in old sporting days such as these, and we had things to do. People to see, as the essers said when they quit a public council.
Chaz, an old Willy dingo dresser from down under in old south west parts came west north west for a few parlès. It appeared from all congruent chain rules that a party from the north descending on the trappers might actually surprise a detail running cotton-wool for the mingos and the praders two week from Trapsday.
We cocked a derision.
We’d need Thomas for this little tram scan.
Swinging him up on the old polyfon bitzed him up a bit and he got social media with me for being a moving climber. I defensed my hopless cause of half bred social injustice birth defect origin story and he released me his griper.
For sooth, we objected ostensible, but more than often relied on the need to feed more than any thin wafer objection twinned us.
Like us said, americal happened so the nettle might wrap the rose and twine the vine so climb the castle walls to bear upon the cathead withdrawleds.
The loaf withdrawls hanged us something penniless.
Ratmen dingosnaps often revamped old storefronts to lure unwanted children for scraps and hides.
No compassion for the homeless then.
We all hid and rimmbled on the tride and true americano those days. A short of espresso in the boil of aquafiner and kool aid the raft down the dragon hole to softer times when a weed tumble tween the fingers kept us feeling fine.
Fine suited the fellows for as long as we could keep darling but we always heartached for something finer.
Loave was hard to find.
Something severed the connection between us. We wondered had it something to do with the gray matters of prior to the Law Abides of 350 and the fallout times.
Creaser Joe, or Harry Calves as we called him from time to time, played the inside and kept us up to score on the dimes.
“Kepper Calling Name sups and dines at the Bools and Black, Holland tunnel man if I ever once was.”
Steak to brow, he often fenced with the broad end of another doner’s fisticuffs and rarer the time he came up without the rotten meats.
Cold breezers, we called em. The S men left them for the upcrusters to find way to the sex dens for slave hours and torture tims.
This for the Failure to Breed Act of 350, an aim at the priders and the pirateers alike. Media bucannons we called them now.
Thomas came all strappy fellow and we sat to scrap about the common gut.
“Man must loave, ol’ spot.”
I heart faith aggied.
The term spoil had trusted with the think tank, and a sour face broke tween us. Long ago sadness wrangled our sorting souls and we drank amuck the silted water from leaking pipes we gathered aground old ruination by urbs where people once fammed.
“Kepper gave me a cool trap,” complained Harry Calves, “Just because I didn’t give him the propper penny he demon manned.”
Harry made a habit of clapping the kasher when cleaning the info from his vics and often cried forgiveness, per usual the cold breezers, then a swift kick to the breezers, hence the name Creaser Joe, for the punch left in his britches after sows.
I never tangled the bits and pieces with the crunchers and the likes who all too often had a bit of the row in dem.
Monic piece of ashes, we called them, kept them swaying in the winds of change, never made no heafty notes but they’d one day go out with the heafties sure shifting promsies.
That mush sure no doubt, we counted.
When we did forboth, it came up something rotten. The touch between us tarnished the shonship somtin bad and we often broke off for more than a touch tween us.
I remember when I stopped forbothin with Harry Calves all together, he kept insistin we try fistin, so I let him go there with some other chap. I watched for long as I could gut and eventually vummed all over dem.
We never spoke if ever on the matter and now kept to the 411 and the 211 and the drunken bralessness, but I dare say I quandried over the matter of loave with him these days in secret heartstrings of course, never spoke.