The Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, all the style without any of the frills.
Rollo Decks sat in his dilapidated Karmann Ghia, watching, mostly waiting. He slowly opened the door, for any other approach would have surely unhinged it from the car. He walked up to a man walking a small dog. On closer inspection, it was a large cat.
“Excuse me. Question. You seem to lack intelligence. You have the gait of a wounded porcupine. You exude visible stink lines.”
Ernie Hemingway was pissed off. Seriously. He was supposed to be alone. He was not. This was supposed to be his first vacation in eight years. He needed it. Instead, he was laid up at the damn county hospital with a swollen gall bladder, or cholecystitis.
“It could have been worse,” Dr. Pastrami said.
“How the fuck? Huh? How the fuck?” was what Ernie Hemingway thought and said.
Dr. Pastrami skedaddled, but not before saying, “Yeesh, what a grouch!” It is worth noting, his impression of Ed Norton was uncanny.
When searching the word ‘peculiar’ on the interwebs, this was one of the first images to appear.
Maria Padilla was peculiar, to say the least. But it had nothing to do with her appearance, even though she was absolutely stupid crazy for plaid, wore her bra as an overgarment, somehow cornrowed her eyebrows, and every time she was faced with a choice, her tongue dropped out of her mouth. One day, she will have it reattached.
The moon said, “Checkmate.” The man stood there, dumbfounded. Minutes later he said, “You’re a checkmate.”
Long into the night, the man debated with the moon over the terms waxing and waning. All the while, growing louder and louder with each shot of cheap bourbon they imbibed. The man claimed that the moon was waxing, and the moon insisted that the man was waning.
It did not matter a lick that they were both correct, for there was still a lot of bourbon left. What the two lacked in intelligence, they more than made up for with their impeccable stamina.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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