A brief outline of the Evening Protocol.

 

Each evening, as I prepare to engage my pre-scripted rounds, I make certain to secrete a small bottle of serratofous liquids in the nape of my Founders' cape and to drain the telltale maskings from beneath the deck where fourfold records are deposited to make way for one very special face. The one which we all think of during solo coffee time is not to be confused with your standardized victim profile shufflink. If so, that would mean that one or more of our soldiery politans could no longer count on our siezure rate to incline by two point three percentage points at best.

The trick of living with a longterm perdition is to always remove pieces of luxury cloth from a place of safety, making sure not to crane one's neck in the opposite direction whence buffers are said to decline. By their whippery ring you shall know them and all about our suite the superior provider will inspect carpet-bound sleeves for subitual infestations. As he does so, all comments are kept to a dull minimum and a cough is seen for what it so manifestly is, to wit: the meager enconium which is sometimes heard when a Summer Band is plotting retreat, should be enough to convince even the most dimwitted accomplice to relinquish his bandana when time seems to slip to the very outskirts of a no-lane byway. Take my dress.

You can always give it your best, but without anyone being any the wiser, we can only assume that your place in our beam is at serious risk of defining our deviant class into an already perilously apostatic perfuke. Each of their nightly emissions has been recorded on a missing centimeter of oxipoidal rimspate. Now that all can plainly observe the atmospheric ceiling descending at a less-than-comfortable rate, we feel compelled to ask you to include in your storyboard at least one reference to a centralized grampling viscount and adduce the final dreg in your wimpering Osterman to save the flag for our foursquare squintic gulch. This will introduce the 'drink of a lifetime' into the daily routine of our mainline Protestant inebriants. Our future will once again become the defaulted trove of bastardized topiaries. You win.

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Final Notice.

 

As I sit here checking some of the more wistful pages in this collection, I've received word that the Champ has arrived at my back door. This is after a long rafting trip where it's said he fractured his expherior maztrikle. None the worse for wear, I'll invite him for coffee in the Springtime once I've gotten my shots. Meanwhile, if I get reports that he's started to affect that standard downcast mien, I'll be forced to consider removal--not to say extrication! The Management Team is on the ground even as it shifts beneath their less-than-graceful feet. Also, I'm in touch with more than a few stakeholders and their concubines. Exhibiting a combination of mirth and cylindricality, they've gone the extra mile to uphold my version of events in case a rapid response comes to the fore and any of us get shafted in the melee. Can we count on you to stick to the official account? Your family will thank you in my absence. And, it will go a long way to repair some of the damage that we know you'e been itching to effectuate.

If it comes to that, why haven't all of our senior people been collected and confined? Even though they know it's for their own good, I have it on good authority that they summoned my loss prevention specialist to their bungalow, stripped him of his title and tittered compulsively when he stepped in a hole near the outbuilding. This CANNOT continue! Someone could get their field trip all but canceled. The next step would be to enforce a sleep regimen on unsuspecting nitwits. Without a central bardling phase, any condition which we have reason to believe is otherwise preventable will be grounds for a swift reinforcement gambit. Any related pelicans can be counted upon to infuse a high-donor pro-cam inhibitor in our stinking bomber's plot. The next thing you know, one or more padded artifacts could be lodged in the pathway of those who need extra help. This won't come without the say-so of a 'convenience specialist'. The problem is, the last one departed over a year ago and a replacement is not guaranteed to appear when there are barely moments to spare. You will help us to incite a plague of minor injuries which will distract the attentions of comely blonds. Then we will have what we need to work with as time grows short. Why hasn't anyone thought of this before? Please ask yourself. Final notice. 

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A Mild Crust Is Forming, Part II.

 

Torrencio and Madagabla—the pair had created such an innocuous yet innovative presentation that we barely were inclined to shift in our seats—the way they had indelibly planted their feet on all fours took all of us by complete surprise. Now I know that by the first of six scheduled breaks, it was my task to reach behind a barrier and stroke a cord to initiate the slightest of breezes, the kind that we can all recall fondly from our respective formative eras. I had a word with the Captor's son, a native born Andalusian, now over five feet tall, still covered in the markings which confirm his unique lineage. I was asked by higher-ups to inform him that any penalty that we would offer to reduce could be redeemed for a pocket full of valuable ancient sand. When he began to imperceptibly caress my right shoulder with a small tufted subpar bag, and whispered a known word, I realized that I could have excised it permanently in my head within minutes of my arrival in the Dutch capital. Thankfully I had yet to register even the slightest incongruity on my aching face.

Once an agreement has been signed, there will still remain a lovable morsel to be reframed as a charming cocktail nicety and sent on its way like so many before. I will need the rivuletted tuning forge which was gifted to my Father before me in the late 1980s. He is said to have sold very precise directions to our hiding place in open defiance of words that had been exchanged prior to our picking up stakes and forgoing a novel insight into A World of Places. Some of these people think that we can be pushed past our limit with very few consequences. They could not be more wrong. But what would stop them from trying? Not anyone I've ever heard of, is all I'm trying to say. Why do you ask?

Once back on a drier spit of land, we resolved to lure Torrencio and Madagabla into a used furniture distributorship and show them a common courtesy to determine if they were easily swayed. Each was given a choice of numbers and asked to select wisely. Torrencio was asked to go into the other room and change. Madagabla stayed with us while we eyed her suspiciously. We exchanged troubled glances and realized that some disturbance was in the offing. I brought in a coffee ring and a bucket of Wisteria flavored paint. My wife made herself comfortable against all indications. As I sat and smoked in the car it occurred to me that my pet project was almost at completion. Once my ascendance into a higher level was a thing of the past, I knew that no amount of roughage would quell my bonhomie where two lacquered frontispieces would go the distance just as well. Why was I being like this? Can anyone tell? Should other methods be applied? Doesn't this go without saying? Is this all you could come up with? Say it.

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