awake

The laughter ricocheted through the hallway. A chopper flailed about in the distance. Rockets fired. Crazy buckets flew into Rummstein. Hell broke lose. Bushnells exploded. How might one think it possible? A dream state ensued. Padded feet spattered all over the rubber mat. Freethinkers associated. The highway was lost. Prodded to respond, Miraman independently refused. Crowbars cast long shadows on the tall grass. The crimson reaper peeped through the narrow slits. The wall cleaved right on the right side. Morons ruled the moon and lay siege to Mars. The seeds of glory lay open in the hole. Whole grain lay stored below the grand citadel. Who does speak good German these days? Bernstein opened a new bakery down the walkway. The Falklands sank under the Great Urgent Ion Splitting. Widows closed their windowless prisons and opened their willow plaudits. Souvenirs fell to their nadir. The Shah ascended the apple cart. Stocks were pushed down the precipice. Precious little done to don the precis of the effort. Precisely shit. Crazy aunt killed a lot of burghers. Hamlet and Richie Rich shared a sandwich. Who would have thought the Moguls killed so many antelopes. The interlopers overran the Nevadas. The seers clammed shut and didn't smell geese. How many potatoes made a loaf of cheese? The crazy music got no respect. Not even a spectacle. Mirrors made of glass and sandy pillars. The rats ate the blue cranberries. Christmas married Cherry Blossom. Goose-pimples rose in heaving dumplings. A ribble-rabble arose among the throng. Nobody said anything right and the undulating ramifications of the Norse arrival throttled the muted shuffles of the Trojan horse. Cherry wood is expensive snuff. Morse rode thunder and lightning every week and made warrens out of arid hoe. Blah survived. Who would have thought it possible?

Bazookas clanged. Witches threw babies out of their swarms. Poodles crossed the muddied banks of the Coetzee. Sticks and stones woke up the parson. Midgets flew about in gay abandon. Self-defecating humor had a spotty record and vindicates almost nobody. The car sounds like a dead smurf. Radical spies wake up infrequently with periodic headaches. Brobbbah the Elephant has a big brother named Bubba Ganoosh. Maggie does not ovulate while swerving a copy of Tennyson's love poems. Ballerinas bamboozle the spying audience and overhear their snide chidings. Pretty little feet glide along to glib swansongs. Boors and bullies browbeat the poors and bang the sliding doors. Glow worms wiggle to the beat of blowhorns. Drunken toads make their final appearances. Wishy-washy window-cleaners scrub both ways. Emblazoned sweaters keep knitting on their fuming pyres. Blithe spirits drink of spite and dryspepptic fantasies. Grotesque hobgoblins gobble up the hobnobbing jobs of kabob-eating, over-the-hill nabobs. Booze oozes into the sapphire glow of the Zimmermann light-sabres and turns them into polka-dotted leotards. Curds flush peptic banks. Blowhorns whistle into the airwaves and turn the matadors insides out. Catamites and maggots survive the interminable war. Wheezing into ischemic tubes doesn't feel like a whiffy breeze – more like an iffy bake on the greasy side. Bourbons rock and rule. Whence Hummus saplings? Zindabad the Tailor answered 42. The meaning of the knives inside the rock-bottom villians of the vice squad. The villas of Burgundy turn into the Simpsons.

crossing puzzles

“The checked scarf?”, asked Hitoshi.

A bright lamp hung above his head. His eyes sank under the shadows.

“Right.”

He got up from the table. His right hand was trembling.

“Bang! Bang!”, the muzzle exploded as it cocked up under his left palm.

The woman slid down her seat, her face contorted into mock exasperation. A scarlet fountain spurted fitfully from the cavity that filled her chest. A sheet of paper fell from her right palm and crumpled open slowly as it landed like a feather.

It was over in less than two minutes. He waited. He always waited till it was over.

“Let's try another place for a drink”

“Yes”.

He came back for his coat and walked out the other door.

“I don't like to cross puddles”.

“ I see.”

The two left together. In a few minutes, they opened the door to a smoke-filled bar.

“I don't like being fumigated either.”

“Very well, Hito”.

He smiled and kept walking. The neon cast a pink glow on his face.

“What do you like, by the way?”.

“Crossword puzzles.”

Tetsuya stopped.

“What now?”

“You're joking, of course?”

“No. Why?”

“I mean, she was working on one, wasn't she?”.

“That was a Sudoku”.