One Simple Request.

 

Once I've paid for all of you to live on your own for a week or two, would it be okay if I had a glass of water left near my table in the TV room? I ask because of all the bounty I was forced to return and the peculiar way I was instructed to shape my body to meet changing circumstances. They would be hollering names left and right. The only one who showed interest in my case has gone missing in the general hubbub. It would be the right thing to do if someone went out of their way to find him. The telltale clue which you must remember is that he has moderately wispy hair. Also, he walks with a limp, but only after dark. The one time I knew he couldn't be trusted was when he sauntered near my car and made a funny sound. Not 'ha-ha' funny, I hasten to add. If we can catch up with him and sit down next to where he hides his coffee cup while he memorizes the guidelines, no one will blame us if we start to breathe more easily. It's our trademark way of getting involved in community-centric action plans. If my wife ever looks too closely at your hands, you'll know it was a set-up from the get-go. That's why we keep the pages folded in our right front pocket. Everyone is asking why your appearance is making them nervous.

We've decided to take a new slant in our approach. I will make it my first priority to show up every day at noon. The sliding door will be kept in the 'open' position until each contestant is removed through a stationary tunnel sequence. The white lights will come on at the five-minute mark, the pink at ten and the blue at twelve. Each will be docked as a vacancy is recorded. The voice you hear belongs to a forthcoming replacement. Everyone knew that one of these days a standard of care would entail a debonair shop steward thwarting a hare-brained hijacking attempt. The clothing alone could give you fits. By the way some prefer to whimper into a cloth basket, we can calmly assert the value of token asset traps. Their jaded apoplexy encourages conscientious women to flail at fluffy banners. It's just not our style to gyrate out of all proportion to the day's titillation. For that you'd have to navigate a steady stream of off-color bromides. A Master of the Occult Arts who wipes down our windows is not to be trusted to carry out his duties without a hint of the traumatized megalomania for which he so well suited. I will be sure to bury your remaining suitcase at the first hint of my arrival. There is no other way. Now scat.

_________________________