Conflict
fights a constant battle with contemplation. It's a freakish, beleaguered
belief that reinforces masculine values and drip dries the cone hair. Spawn of
portent solitude and most schoolteachers that refuse the grinding ukulele. He
was a protagonist in a ten-gallon hat and a bloated waistline and he rode out
to sickly split ends. Why can't you be evil like I taught you? The guillotine
fucks up the protagonist's serene music solo. Watch out, she's gonna do
something which requires minimal effort and special effects. Maybe tomorrow
he'll survive and actually get round to doing something. That's a balm if I
ever did see one.
Pleasure
wrote the stripes into the long and unforgiving pathway but we all saw that
coming, let's be honest. It's the protagonist who has to deal with the
synthesizer music and the incessant need to be chirpy out of respect for plot
contrivances. It contradicts everything I never believed in. It leaves me half
of something I wouldn't even pay for on a glittering September Thursday. I
thought about giving the protagonist a name but then that would just encourage
Erasmus to subtly tuck his own in there. He has vanity like a robe as loose
flecks. I shall leave a legacy but it shall not begin with 'e' or end with 'saw'.
Everybody went there, all my forbears and respected wives and children, so I
doubt there's much to see outside of a whimpering rosebud.
When's
it the best time to go home? When the babies are wriggling with the clock hands
and pontificating about early learning screws that do it all entirely wrong
with a different end of the screwdriver. I'm thinking that the protagonist's
voice is going to get all screechy and gay when I put in the part about DNA
swabs or the rushing of saints to tidy up disregard caused by my own handiwork.
It's a life lesson that dresses itself in Christmas wrapping paper.
Back
at the hideout, we have lost the current cake and replaced it with a Nordic
actor who doesn't wear cowboy hats without a handlebar moustache. He'll be
bastard for wardrobe design to deal with but at least he'll look the part, I'll
be damned if he doesn't. The protagonist must look terrible and he'll have to
acquire shaving skills that do not incorporate barbers and razors. Maybe I'll
introduce this Nordic actor to my machete collection.
The
day rescinds my plea for togetherness and feeds me Japanese animation instead.
It distracts me but I always come out on top and demand a recount for the sake
of the big-eyed, bug-eyed masses. Mr. Thank comes back to me and tells me that
I don't even have a coat of arms, so I buy one and shove it up his rocket ship
and set fire to the lamination. They'll yearn for these days and beg for the
childish surprises I kept tucked away for a later date. It's good to be a
thirsty dagger. Don't you-
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