Some really stellar performances which will get people talking.
Like the ‘Most electric fan blades stopped by a tongue in one minute’ record (thirty-two). That’s a crowd pleaser, but not on my list.
For one thing, you have to have an electric fan to practice on, which is not a thing I have in my current abode.
And secondly, since my tongue has been my main source of income for the last few years, I’m a little nervous about beating the poor little fella up.
My old ladies wouldn’t like that.
Though honestly, if I could make money which didn’t involve eating old lady pussy (then robbing them blind) I’d be OK with that.
Seventy-three Mississippis, seventy-four Mississippis.
At one hundred and sixteenMississippis my shoulder gives out. Cockwomble. I collapse on the cell floor.
Is it lunchtime?
I hope Higgins brings it, he’s my favorite.
But a little voice tells me I’m still in his bad books.
Think before you act, that’s another thing Nan would say, as well as “you’re the devil’s spawn” and “what did I do in life to deserve this fate.”
But in this case, it’s Higgins’ fault, he shouldn’t have tempted me with Peter Pointer. And anyway, he still has three other fingers and Tommy Thumb to keep his palm company.
The guards, annoyingly, didn’t let me keep Peter. I was going to polish the knuckle into the perfect pendant for the girl of my dreams.
Kitten.
Wump—ppp.
My favorite melody.
Wump—ppp.
The bumpy heart-thing is now the soundtrack of my life. It all started when I stared through a bus window and saw a little kitty cat staring back.
I wasn’t going to allow anyone to tie her in a sack and drop her in the Thames. Not on your nelly.
Wump—ppp.
I hear it in my heart, not my ears. I feel her vibration.
Wump—ppp.
Wait. Something’s wrong.
WHOOSH.
The air.
The shadows.
MY BELLY.
Something is very very wrong.
I stomp across to the door and bang my fists. “NOOOO!” I scream until my throat tastes like a handful of rusty nails.
