From where he sits he has a hard time seeing the presentation of a novel sequence in the current particle build. The woman who has been trained to keep an eye on him does not mind giving the impression of seeming vacuity, all the while roving this way and that with a prominent attorney's claw in her tooth for good luck. What he doesn't know is that this whole set-up is based on his very own remarks which put things in motion. No one was supposed to have any idea. The one time he himself had an idea, people expressed a newfound willingness to engage in ponderous lickspittle, in exchange for which he stood to be dunned a likable amount of markers. From the Big Ten on the ceiling, to a call issued in the latter half of the second ninth, he could tell that if the tallest woman in his plan could not come to an adjustment, then he would be forced to abide by a mandate from a Room in an alternate location. This is why he was pissed.
What could it be that always frees one of the little fryers to forage in disguise and Lakeside Elements to withstand the ever constant buffering? He will indicate that he is in possession of one of the possible answers. In order to convey an impression of asinine predictability, he will go to great lengths to feign a belief in mission-critical blunders. The point that he once made in a Siamese roadhouse, when everyone present had become wedded to a total non-starter (idea wise), had the effect of putting even the insubstantial squirmers at ease, if you can believe that. Now we find their accounts spread quite widely in Matterhorn networks. But no one knows who has done the spreading. In fact I DO know. It's a guy named Jim. His last name rhymes with a Holiday celebrated by approximately one fifth of humanity. I think you'll have no trouble guessing. There you go!
When a scar appeared on his egg during a session with a Dutch-trained company shrink, he made bold with a series of facts which no one could have anticipated would land him in a hot waterhouse of his own design. In the first room, about half of the items bore the telltale signature of the flagrant originator of Primitive Number Relief. You know how he reacted to that, right? That's not what he did though. No, what he did was, he gathered the last of his people at the Wingate and read them the riot act, so to speak. The only one to voice the nariest peep offered to shield a device implanted in his forehead from bastardized sub-frequencies. Unfortunately, that just was not adequate. No one was likely to die, but disappointment was rife. And it showed. Then it snowed. That's when I asked if anyone had a comb. What do you think?
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