The Crackle of Manure Between His Plump Little Legs
“Would you like
an adult diaper?” Hans inquired gently.
He was a master of the physical gesture, placing his reassuringly
paternal hand on Guy Foxranger’s shoulder with smooth, even pressure in a
moment when none of the other partygoers were about.
Darby sniffed
down her breadstick and automated a gluestrip; her arch nose and edible
lorgnette combination elevated the condescending frowny-smile she bestowed on
the scene into a classic patrician vacuum of approval.
“You can smell
the shit from here,” she said.
Now that machines
eat our excess food and accompany us to such functions we know the distinction
of true companionship.
.
