Terms of the Agreement.

 

The agreement that we reached with the participant who exercises dominion over this segment of the Sector obligates us, if a patch is ever to be undone, to regale a living portrait of the founding faction with recordings of troubling machinery. But a switch which we have parlayed into a tidy, if swarthy, nest egg, is never to be exchanged for oblerments without explicit direction from those whose rumored existence is above all else, or likewise our common kitty will be splundered and a decoy splayed into finite grumblings for the pleasure of salutary Viscounts.

When, at the behest of said Viscounts, I pull our singular volunteer aside and motion for her to appear comatose lest we arouse suspicion, it occurs to me that this game I've been playing since the fifth day is almost at a point of culmination. I retract my artisanal third limb from a sorting device, launch into a needless expiation and arrive at a brief pre-climax opportunity for banter while offering her a pilfered portion of luckmeat from our stationary trunk. Avoiding restless vagabonds in our search for the common meat is thought to be a trap for the unweary; that is to say, those who avoid sitting within the range of pleasant wooden cottlings are soon to be appointed to launch a vainglorious night of tricks without any regard for whatever rear-echelon pliant skank boldly shrinks from a wavering pustule.

The flag that I seem to remember retaining for that final bland eruption is now hanging with all the rest in a forlorn resting pattern which resists any effort to entangle in a storm so blank that a germ forgets its route through a decadent shrine. This is why it matters so much. The lingering breach which floats to the surface of olfactory dreams, lives to disarm the love of flavors in a boldly encountered Episcopal pilot. He surrendered his life for a chance at harboring a crystal channel and earning a rapt epigram at my fourth funeral. The grieving process has only just begun and I'll do my best to get you switched out for one of the rampant pansies who mope in our yard for scraps after dark. Is this a 'thing'? (Yes)

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August Bonus Material

 

It wasn't a good fit.  This calls for a rounding error and not one creepshot to please 'the Missus'.  Why are the lower rungs so approachable when even Mary Richardson is steeling herself for a long drawn drag-out fight with the Fipperburg's baby person? It will not show you a free-style move, but, if you stop playing your cards right, my only sister, Velma Thorp, might exhibit a hankerin' to give it a go and be done with her non-entity status once-and-for-fucking-all! This I will tell you, young man, and not a moment too soon,.. because the one who stands with the briefest allowed wedding shift will still profit when all not-so-decent approximations of 'things' fail to meet a ladder on the high blood-count quotable trail-mix arrest pansy. What calls out my own face is one tiny thread or threat and the danger is not real, or as unconvincing as a polymath is able to arrange to make it, unless one of us is missing something all too essential to continue breathing what passes for air in this marginal  neighborhood. When I tell my side of any type of account, my face starts to resemble a mottled frame and I am doomed to live out my days in an abyss of dignity and discharge.  My own poly-unsaccaride count is approaching zero, but we, the Missus and me, are 'feeling no pain' with a lemon-teal covering, a fright wig, not a shout to encase the Bolton Muffin Shield purchased last winter, all but falling apart now,.. and I'll tell you what, the name which keeps coming up for us is 'Juanita Clermont'. She seems not-nice enough, though one will say, in a candid moment, that the stress is stress-free and all our moments ring with a management trainee's odor, but your whisp is flailing, a tail too grave and a lung-betty cannot spare the insight.  Could you or the one after, not engage in a cooling manifesto or some similar? You, a bit more chipper than necessary, have apparently subscribed to the issue in Month 5, thereby avoiding any mention of the game to leak my positive test results. Or, if not, we will exhibit it in a solid way throughout the Summer of Pain at affordable prices wherever felt imitates a coffee rind, plastic over shadow, and the one we kill will always, or once in a tardy period, slap a whole lot of purses in our face for inspection. We have yet to schedule an announcement detailing the particulars of their fraud and deceit. White could never be a conversation starter after slate is picked for Final Option Four. But by now, any drill that could have ever been considered to have started, is but a few moments from complete depletion.  It will still be a day when all is finished, too bold for a light jacket, but you may not, even now, release your splindly ass for inspection by our trusted partners. That's right, everyone just thought it was perfectly fine to refer, in a smirking fashion, to Pepper the Pelvis. (Please fill in the circle; since agreement is mandatory, we'll sweat this in pairs. Don't look less than three times).A semi-indecent assembly scar event seems to be carrying the day with our group and the tameness reflected in the circuit alliance stands to once again give comfort and (at least) seven partially shining cakes for our trouble. A back soaks just fine, but the fear is in an ovoid configuration (metaphorically speaking, please be assured), but just any old temple could be spared, if Tampu can be believed. Wake while a bone card is still able to carry the day, your hip may hold you to a meditation agreement and we are told, in confidence, that a rooting interest is a minimum requirement to hold one's own when a doubling of replies is the fantasy of the moment. The person of your former chauffer will be seen to enact a withered proxy-by-dental-protein banishment incision. The pull of it is so very lively, but all at once the dust lacks a name and a word we tried thinking of is blank. If so then you may have fallen for the very same trick again, this time with flap in hand, crease in forehead and a slim-to-none chance to bearing witness to how the game is 'really' played. The Third Father is known for intending to keep an antic of this sort within easy reach, as to the sold-out portion, you can have that too. But only when a calling could be made to float, in its own supported lerquid, again a film develops, night falls without a hitch. Repeat and follow with a foundering dumbth. The color operation merely a graded melée. We can/cannot promise one pale fellow will meet your plane with/without a scandalizing mood disorder.  In fact, for a ring we've developed paler than the pattern it infects, the one see-through metric of note, a partial sighting delay or expectation of same, is par for the course. But only the tip which we treasure in our body-positive naiveté, is a grasping, ever beyond markups, in our nightmare profile ejecta. The first fire-code deceit: usually reserved for the all-but-nominally dead. We don't approach these gambits with anything approximating pleasure. I had read my manuals, flouted the approved guidelines, secured a divorce settlement, abandoned my pets at the airport, even scoured the greater Milwaukee metroplex for a germ decision unit, in short done everything in my power head off any possibilty of a diminution of my prerogatives at this critical juncture. The fear is palpable but waning. . The stiversity that was her former mode, now all but forgotten was to become, in the hands of a rational actor, just a pittance withheld on demand for peanuts or less. All to no avail however, because whichever way one pulls it, one solid fiber never fails, and this is the one we fought within, a regard for a state faction restored for the Mossbat Era, barely begun, now primarily a joke of one. No, it's more like a strategy option, we only fold when a brisk, tidy oval is (virtually) plunked forth, a suspicious calmness sets in and my personal box is set aflame, after dinner perhaps?  Why? In what central corral are our feelings to be restricted for the benefit of a truly powerful segment of the remaining population at war with itself over trivial notions of their cause's correct interpretation? Our private naps would continue as before, only now with a soiled tone for contemplation and renewal. It hurts her but who's wilting with glee? . If you can imagine a dog's leg encased in amber (at a museum, say) then you have striven far enough in your efforts to earn the plaudits of the typically well turned-out young woman-about-town. A management trainee of my acquaintance has squandered her life savings in a polo pony breeding profile which looks to be the first radar-assisted back-end deployment magnet to make it out of beta before my second son tragically met his end in a bowling experiment gone even worse than 'bad'.

Notice to Members and non-Members: Memorization of the above text is mandatory.

Please don't force my hand.

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Look what happened to John Murphy.

 

It was solely because of the alternative range-of-motion exercises, forced upon us during the waning days of the trial, that we now saw fit to exchange our version of a 'knowing glance' with an abstracted guard who sauntered in our wake and made small noises using an implement that he never seemed to lack.  We could not tell whether or if the pleasing tone of our passing would be maintained or if, upon assumption of our underwater duties, a frail drill would be enough to force enclosure on the recently absorbed.

As I have informed the trained half of our taunted partners, the braining regimen for even one fortunate sibling would obligate the remainers to enable a cessation of periodic noldency. Whenever a pasture is to be excavated, it's only for the pleasure of the degendered scrofulents in our motley assortment of vacated absconders. What could even begin to suit us is a question for those whose thoracic pressure maintains appropriately dimensioned bevels. A liberated carpenter whose disc we used to exchange for rose-implected petals is rumored to express a fear of rising to a heat-seeking challenge. Is a scalloped pattern anything by which to render a harsh judgment? It's not as if any old kind of plated kidney farm could be yanked out from under us like so many apprehensive blitutis docs.

As of now, a generic seeding trolgent is emerging into a low-light, high-impact, trace environment and multiple finger surgeries are of the essence. But when our shortest thrilling virgin, Marty Jepson, is finally located in a dilapidated halfway house in Trenton, Colorado, our ears pick up the scent of a high-falutin' imbroglio gone bad. It's up to us to stick with the plan and not let some elderly widow prance in and take the gold, in a manner of speaking. If anyone thinks that an adhesive lifestyle would prove more provocative, they're welcome to try it out for themselves. As far as we're concerned though, we've been in that barn before and the door was slammed in our faces. All the nuts in town thought they'd get a piece. We had to poison every last one of 'em! When jobs cry out for completion, a jaundiced outlook won't get you any stock options, but a sterling tolerance for abominable seating options is a sign of premature maturity in one so young. Our hats are off in a way that only a high level operative can appreciate. Try to see this from our vantage point and the world is yours. Look what happened to John Murphy.

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