Hans Christian Andersen
dyes the doctor’s hair blonde and gets away with it. Only HCA can manage such a
feat of corpulence, he alone can disrupt the very cadence of nature in
fluctuation. He makes animals talk and the devil’s own’s eyes gasp in the name
of hereditary gumption. It’s the kind of sweet he likes to scoff when reading
plagiaristic articles about his life. It makes his moustache smirk and fleck
itself with cardigan fibres. HCA is a madman when it comes to cleaning lint off
of his shoulder blades; they always manage to cut him somehow, like a rapier.
It makes the rest of his limbs scatter.
Meanwhile his doctor is
a woman and she isn’t taking no for answer from most of her sorry-legged child
patience. She secretly wants to overthrow the comix scene with her own brand of
miscreant hair gel, thereby creating spikes and a future of tapestry poking.
She is a virtuous finger with a tape recorder but a bowing bounty for all those
who seek medical professionals with blonde streaks in their hair. The actors
she works for are reticent to say the least, Francophiles with sleepy
directions going ahead of their scrabble scores. The tyre tracks are brotherly
and sisterly, great no matter the gear rattled gender. To be so blind to
genitalia is an implosive pastime, it’ll only result in volcano people coming
forth to demand their money back from where there money has never been nor will
ever even touch delicately. The daredevils shoot out of the woodwork and lay
claim to the doctor and her HCA attacker, stating to the media at large that
they are perpetrators of most unorthodox actions in the Middle East. The
fantasy of a comix collection about painful doctrine is just that, a fantastic
premise for a crafty yarn. Neil untangles those kind of yarns with a slippery calm,
it knocks him right onto his centre and splits most of his facial expressions
like a lip on a fat tiger.
This isn’t about Neil
and his fiddly finger though, this is a testimony against Hans Christian
Andersen’s gadding about in the waiting room. He was last seen flinging
clipboards at erstwhile patients in the hopes that they might promote
themselves to uncomfortable, wonky plastic chairs rather than the cushioned but
significantly sinkable armchairs they are currently hogging. Fortunately his
actions are so far for naught, who would want to give a fine upstanding
storyteller anymore than his due? His characters are in support of his misbehaviour
because they are his children and are simply expected to do so. If they ever
broke their letter-based programming then they would simply cease to be fun
anymore so I supposed we should take what they choose to regard with a pinch of
cardiac arrest. That way Neil doesn’t get to unpick the really bad stuff ahead
of his clientele’s wishes. There are two slices left for him to unthread so we’ll
leave him at that. He’ll be happy enough.
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