The
Scraper leads the caves in ‘good cop, bad cop’ formation. Interesting work.
Pretty women in angry Italian dresses infest the corners the caves in question
and don’t even find the common courtesy to find the elevator doors at the end
of the archaeological dig. This could be the find of the century, the devil
with puffed up cheeks and a cool accent. His wife had a good time in the killer’s
den, she sailed his yacht and even got into law school. Sixty eight straight
convictions without plea bargain. One day the timer drops the mathematician,
the next the geography teacher with treacherous prejudice. Shotguns were not
involved. I love to seal lips with secrets from Florida’s rutting pool. If you walk with me,
you walk with fiery footsteps right off of the top of the Scraper’s mighty
head. Some people can’t handle defying sentiment exactly; filling in resumes
tends to be as far as most people can manage. Dodgy Southern accents are quite
different to the downwards slope. Are you a preacher’s daughter working at a
poultry stick factory. Lots of potential clients in negotiation with their own
contracts.
Our
crudity ends with tyres and begins with talent focused via squeezing and
stitching on deadlines. Can you sleep at night with glass on your fifth avenue?
Can you mount a policeman with an expose lurking around with bulky children. Of
course the fraternity ends with curly living across the hall. Nobody told the
mistress about the apartments she would have to frequent just to make ends
meet. Be careful just how you get lost in palettes. There aren’t many
impressions to make when you’re a millionaire with six year’s worth of frugal
lying under your five dollar belt. Are you really this good at being a Mary? I’m
only getting behind on my bills and shore leave. Scrounge around, repossess, imamate
all you like and know just how much I love you in media. You are in charge of
mergers and acquisition of intellectual properties according to whole team
units. It would be so nice to meet you while you’re extraditing post hoc cases
with NYPD terrorists. The pet goat makes me laugh.
It’s
a test, right? The Scraper makes eighteenth century car salesman an
impossibility because locking that shit down would be too mild for most casual
observers. Your dogs may whimper but I alone own the basement for my crocodile
boots and shoes and all the candles that make pretend they’re voodoo through
their mood lighting. I do not like fishing or lawyering or spiritual currency.
The midriff silences racial health against Monsieur GreenPaint, the very
complexion of The Scraper. That’s all of it, all the Caribbean
over the walls. I’m just trying to help legal documentation say goodnight to
the simple people and their bright white t-shirts filled with alky wine
glasses. Float around for a while, drift but do not settle at the condo. His
side, my side, her side – all exaggerated appointments of cross handling,
thanks to that pet goat I mentioned.
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