As he lay dying in a hospice, Seymour Franklin, was in a serious predicament. The lobe in his brain that catered to his communication skills fried out during the last stroke, his third, if you are counting. He could hear. He could smell. He could comprehend. But he could not move, nor speak. It sucked to be him.
Chip Masters was fed up, and it was apparent in his posture. Usually, he stands at 6’4”, but today, he was compressed, hunched over at 6’1”. How many more phones could he possibly lose this year? He lost count after nine, and it was only March.
Joe leaned forward, “Hey, you gonna eat that?” He pointed to either a large fingernail or a small toenail.
Donny picked it up and studied it, and then casually tossed it on Joe’s tray, “Have at it.”