It was late in the afternoon of one spring day when I had been inquiring information on the great, Jackson Tidepounder. The day smelled of ancient facsimiles and born-again athiests but I wasn’t here to be a romantic. I was here for answers. That is why I had met up with my dear friend, Jefferson Airplane. A portly man with a wide jaw and loss of hair above his eyes. I had met him on the far side of Northington, Jack. The most prestigious town in the domain of pinball. Jefferson sat upon a log, reading from a pamphlet and powdering his nose. I had come here to learn more about Tidepounder for reasons that are of special interest to any man in the fishing business. Tidepounder was a former member of the Judicial branch of Wilshire Falls. A man whom spoke lightly of beavers and ravished in the finer elements of the periodic table. He had once been able to smuggle high frequency rolls of plutonium from Meritston, Poukeepsie, Aretha Franklin. The word around the mohagony bush is that he has been exiled to Europe for developing illegal litigations for the tartly equivocal Dr. Broken.

Dr. Broken, a man whom only can be introduced with the dropping of a zipper and the annihilation of an idigenous species of rat, he was the most honorary M.D. around town. I wasn’t in any kind of mood for false prophets this evening so I retired before the sun shone its last ray upon my ass. My, my, my was my rear end growing indecently like the size of my bank account. I decided to light up a blunt of Northern Gaylord Focker before I arrived at my house in Piper Pigeon. The moon was about to grace its presence and the beef stew was about to be shoved into the oven by my butler, Colonel Brahms. He was a retired military officer just looking for a handout. I gave it to him free of blueberrie tax. This wasn’t the kind of night that was well deserved of seperation anxiety, so I quickly put on my fur coat and took a bath. The way the soapy suds careened around my chesticles was enough to make me suffer from a coma of ecstacy. That was neither here nor there though. I needed to write a letter of recommendation to Captain Kristopher before my yawning was much to proud to be designater driver. I needed to find out more about the most mysterious Jackson Tidepounder.

I could hear Colonel Brahms consuming nachos from far below. The study in which he felt it was his right, according to his high prestige in the 45th brigade of Jayson King’s Nights of the Sqare table to fondle my books and speak sweet nothings into their paper ears. The man was a bastard with a great insight on the happenings of the Galapagos Islands so I usually let his tomfoolery slide. I grabbed a towel made of the finest silk and wiped off my index finger then grabbed another towel of petrified wood and began to lightly toggle my body. The night was still young but I was too old. Far too old for any such vivacious and lustful hand-in-hand affair with this twilight of a night. I said goodnight to Colonel Brahms in almost every language he didn’t speak then slammed my door. I wasn’t going to be in the best of moods tonight. I knew sleep would be second to my thoughts. I decided to read my favorite book, “Angels in the Outfield”, hoping it would help to calm my spirits or better put me into a sleep, that of a Russian baby. Until next time my friends. Read well and cherish your faucet.


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