You snuffle you snort you cough you spit because it's all husk dust at dusk here. Though it's midday. No, morning. Whatever the people call this shit. And then you "ALMS? ALMS FOR THE POOR?" "Whatchoo jus say?" I'm finding that my presentation may be a bit off but this itch at the piercing through my left nipple is jivving me something fierce so I chatter my molars a second to give a release to the parexcellence feeling they call "relief" of all the bladey tips of my metal fingers doing a light scrimble about it. The vapours coming out my mouth after as I lit my head back all jingles jangles precedes a stretch so my spine can pop along back into a proper cordion, and it's by then and only then that I can really turn my attention back to Wicket. But first "I SAYS I SAYS ALMS? FOR THE POOR? OI!" "Yo stargaze whatchoo" "Alms." "Arms?" "Nuh nuh I don think arms but maybe that's righ I mean yeh give, poor tem arms and ten.." "Then?" "Well armed poor sounds like it could right fix up the place. Boot the 5th ave crowd shibbity quick and then you got revamp and recol to decol but Wicket if yeh think about it OI!" "OI YESELF whatcha slappin for I'm just fillin my gid while you yigging on" "Don't do that, Wicket, doin the human thin, Wicket, the ask and divvy off" "But Sky I AM human. I keep tellin" "OI! SHUDDSIT! All yeh with yer interuptions how yah even tell stories in this place? Eh? Nobody minds their fuckin ears." "I heard ya I heard ya revamp and recol and decol.." "Good cause the question comes if tey do that then betcha tey jus gonna turn out the same, non?" "I guess... but what's an alm?" "I dunno. I saws it in a movies once. Maybe alamony."
