Johnson interrupted.
“Mr.
Scientist, we actually came to take a look at the lemon processor and its
attendant arposcomm.”
Mr.
Scientist put both his thumbs between his teeth and looked at each man in
turn. Despite his many years he yet
maintained a British Invasion mop of hair and wore t-shirts with pictures of
skulls, motorcycles, hungry beasts, and naked women on them. The one he wore now bore an image by
Commensurion’s sister Elaine on it, though Commensurion himself was not
familiar enough with her work to recognize it as such. The image referred not to any specific band,
but was a tribute to the sludge metal genre as a whole. Words to that effect floated above and were
intertwined with the pneumatic tresses of some maternal überschwein pregnant
with cosmic dread.
“Oh
really?” Scientist’s face went slack.
