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"Look Sarah, about this whole parricide business." I said.
'Yes' she replied.
'It's not on the list.' I said.
'So.' She said.
'Well, that would mean I get to thump you with the 2x4….where is the 2x4 by the way?, I couldn't find it before.'
'Oh, it's in the car, I couldn't manage it up the stairs with the shopping.' She spoke through her beverage.
'Ok, so, yes, it's not on the list Sarah.' I could tell she had already forgotten our topic of conversation.
'I suppose it would be quite painful, and splinters and so very irritating.' I had curried her favor.
'Let me assure you it is very painful, just ask that old woman.'
After the list had been completed we both felt an immense sense of satisfaction, and the prospect of new, original,
exciting lists in the future kept us salivating at the bit, and mad and crazy. And then this British fuck had to
go and kidnap me. In all seriousness, who kidnaps a man with $1.50 to his name, going to buy milk from the store?
The question was so vexing, the rats and the bad teeth seem to run secondary as the major infliction of torment.
But like I said, I wasn't Italian, nor was I overly worried by my situation;
Visa v the awful dungeon and the impending doom.
Throughout my time in the dungeon, I would talk alot, I would say things like: "What ever 'appened to the
'cow-lick' hairstyle? Or is it 'cows-lick? You don't seem to see so much of that any more. Do you think cows used
to actually lick the face of unawares children in the pastures? I think it's quite possible; cows are strange beats
you know. Actually, Mr. British fellow, everything is strange when you think about it. Trees are strange, laughter
is strange, the way water sits in a cup, it's all most peculiar."
My keeper, enraged by my rambunctious insolence, proceeded to bludgeon one of the rats he was cooking. It splattered
every ways and was followed by an awkward silence that made me regret I had said anything at all. So this when
on for quite some time and then one day, out of the blue, the British man with bad teeth, quietly unstrapped me,
kissed me on the cheek, and sent me on my way. I'm not one to look a gift horse on the mouth, so I got my derrière
out of there oot-sweet.
Sometimes when I sit at my writing desk, I long for that dungeon. With its finite possibilities, damp smells, and
menacing vibrations. The stretching rack does leave one with excellent posture.
sigh*.....I miss Sarah.
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