The cheeseburger did not have a chance. Not in the hands of that hungry man. Deep down, it knew it was its own damn fault for smelling so good, and oh my God, for being so juicy. If it didn’t do something drastic, it would surely end up in that man’s mouth, and ultimately his stomach, only to be transformed into vomit or poo.
In retrospect, Vince Ainsley should have been more conscious of retaining balance than paying so much attention to his unmatched socks, especially at the top of the unfamiliar rickety stairs. Hindsight always sounds like a know-it-all you want to punch in the damn face.
She looked extremely incorrect, mostly unhealthy. If anything, she looked horrific. She had the right-before-you-die-face. But yawning during a job interview was worse. Sharona Solommi was way over qualified and the wages were half of her usual earnings, but she needed this job.
Mr. Bosley Howell leaned over the desk and asked with rehearsed concern, “Are you okay, Ms. Solommi?”
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.”