Sunday, February 22, 2004
it's the way that grapefruit looks at me...
"People are going to think you're a murderer," he said as I wiped the sword clean on my white t-shirt. "Nonsense," I wrote on the wall with my finger, still dripping red. Adding quotation marks and my signature to the inscription, I assured my friend of my unstained reputation. "No one will think I'm a murderer. Now where's my 100% Official Murderer hat?"
He handed me the hat, which I donned, and we walked out the door. We waited around for a taxi cab, but no cab came, so I went back inside and got one from the taxi cabinet. We hailed it; it hailed back, and we started walking home.
I tried to hide when I saw the police dogs turn the corner. They came at me at barkneck speed, and I didn't have a prayer. I fell flat on my back before I hit the ground. "Throw me a bone here," I said, and they barked all the louder at my humor so dry. Bone-dry. Before long, my shirt was in tatters, each dog silently licking clean his own piece of the booty. Shirtless, I was hauled off to jail for the first time in several paragraphs.
The truth is, I didn't murder those tomatoes. They made a vengeful attempt on my life after I sold their military secrets to the pizza place down the street to pay off my considerable debts. They vastly outnumbered me, but I, my friends, am not called Bensaki the Catsup Samurai simply because it sounds cool. I successfully defended my life, and for that I am here in jail, rotting like a tomato or something. If you think of a better simile, or a way to bust out, let me know.
"People are going to think you're a murderer," he said as I wiped the sword clean on my white t-shirt. "Nonsense," I wrote on the wall with my finger, still dripping red. Adding quotation marks and my signature to the inscription, I assured my friend of my unstained reputation. "No one will think I'm a murderer. Now where's my 100% Official Murderer hat?"
He handed me the hat, which I donned, and we walked out the door. We waited around for a taxi cab, but no cab came, so I went back inside and got one from the taxi cabinet. We hailed it; it hailed back, and we started walking home.
I tried to hide when I saw the police dogs turn the corner. They came at me at barkneck speed, and I didn't have a prayer. I fell flat on my back before I hit the ground. "Throw me a bone here," I said, and they barked all the louder at my humor so dry. Bone-dry. Before long, my shirt was in tatters, each dog silently licking clean his own piece of the booty. Shirtless, I was hauled off to jail for the first time in several paragraphs.
The truth is, I didn't murder those tomatoes. They made a vengeful attempt on my life after I sold their military secrets to the pizza place down the street to pay off my considerable debts. They vastly outnumbered me, but I, my friends, am not called Bensaki the Catsup Samurai simply because it sounds cool. I successfully defended my life, and for that I am here in jail, rotting like a tomato or something. If you think of a better simile, or a way to bust out, let me know.
