Having
discovered an old bottle of Hai Karate (he hesitated to say he had “found” it,
because he was afraid his grandmother would snap, “Well, it wasn’t lost.”)
Snickerum slathered all of it, every last long-expired drop, over himself.
“It will
help disguise my natural aroma, should there be guard animals.”
The bottle
had belonged to his father. Snickerum
put it away in a box for such mementos.
The label was still in good shape.
Robed hands poised to break boards or grip the steering wheel, leaving a
stinky trap for the next person to use the car (but most often a truck). Such distinctions were vital, he had found.
.
