“Pansy, did you see what that meathead did?”
“No, Gracie, what?”
“He locked himself outside.”
“Again?”
“Yup?”
“Should we rescue his hairless butt and open the door?”
“That depends. Is there any bacon left?”
“Yup. On the counter.”
“Sorry, meathead.”
Herb was delusional.
The gymnast contorted backwards in artful retroflection, her ribbon efficient in its sparely motion, the structured rules of physics seemingly vandalized in ...
I’ll never forget the first time I sat behind the yoke of dad’s old hovercar by myself, newly minted holo-license carefully filed in my e-wallet.
spinning flying orb
