Safe as a Gift from the Aircraft Razorburn
Many more
head lice building behind the crash as Treemanor and his compatriots, riding in
comfortable depressions in rings worn on each of Treemanor’s fingers (except
for the left thumb: this was reserved for the ultimate Stoner Rock album, which
Treemanor hoped to acquire before next Tuesday). The tomato that the men’s mother had a seventeen-year
veteran of the municipal police force, was missing pieces from the old, overly
complex boardgame about real estate and the building contractor profession.
“My friend
Bob became a contractor,” Treemanor asserted during a respite in a ditch. Columns of fresh troops marched by,
exchanging insults and warnings with the big wooden house entity and his
finger-borne sidekicks.
“He’s not
your friend,” snapped Alton Henry, whose seat was on the pointy finger on
Treemanor’s right hand. “You haven’t
spoken to him in over twenty years!”
“No, but
I’m sure that, if we were to meet today, by chance in the middle of some field
of wheat in the midst of silent harvest,” Treemanor’s gaze drifted into the
cloud-freckled sky over the distant horizon as he conjured up the vision, “That
we would share a hearty handshake and then begin laughing over the mutual
follies of our youth.”
“I hope you
don’t shake hands too hard,” Wilmer Goop, clinging to a bandage around the stub
of a pinky, “We might be crushed.”
Later Treemason’s
words were misquoted with reference to a “mutual youth,” though there was a gap
of five or six years to be pissed away.
.
