So there we was, me and Hairy Mary Anne Rayce had finally committed to each other and were now shacked up on a mattress, jus behind The Ezzy Quick Motel and Slot Machines, Highway 66, outskirts of Flagstaff. We had managed to sneak into motel, 3:33 am. and purloin said mattress from room 520, unbeknownst to somnolent front desk staff. That, an with a couple rolls of saran wrap dear Mary absconded with from the QuickquickE Mart, we managed to construct ouselves a sweet hovel. Mary stole a `There's No Place LIke Home' plaque from nearby pawnshop, strung it on an overarching branch, and we were all set up, Jus like our parents Ward and June had been. (June later transitioned and is now Juan, but that is beyond the scope of this post.)
So there we were, of a lazy Monday afternoon, lolling post-coitally in reverie, when a snuffling is loudly heard behind us in the tulgey wood.
I immediately arose, and with vorpal blade, went to investigate.
Not to worry, it was only Timmy.
`Timmy' I cried exponentially, `whaddya u doing here?' I convolvulated.
`I am examining the undersides of leaves, and the structure of the twining of their veins'. he curtly stated, `Therefrom to extrapolate the future value of Bitcoin'.
`Well, carry on,' said I, `should you desire a respite, Hairy Mary and I have a lovely mattress nearby, you're welcome to visit'.
Just then, a screaming came across the sky. Two objects, bodylike, fell from the jet wheelwells and came hurtling earthward. Fortunately, they landed smack dab in middle of me and Mary's mattress, so were none the worse for wear, though they gave Mary quite the start, as she painted her nails, causing a long ruby stripe up her forearm.
Who was it but Mike and Gino!!! Gino pulled a full 2.57 liter bottle of grappa from vest pocket (he was always well dressed) unscrewed up the cap, took a hale swallow, and passed it about.
Soon we were all jolly and merry. Timmy came by, festooned with a collection of leaves, and it was just like old times all over again and again.
After a while, towards the dimming of the day, while the whole gang of was resting peacefully upon mattress, dozing a bit, came a sudden crashingness, trouncingly through the scrub brush.
I was quickly and suddenly erect, vorpal blade in hand. Gino likewise, empty grappa bottles handheld ready to crash upon intruders.
Suddenly a multicoloured pig crashed through the underbrush, upon which back stridled our Lord and Overseer, Tony F. Canute Gates.
`None of you are wearing your garlic wreaths!!' He scowled resolutely. `All people must employ garlic wreaths at all time, there is a contagion upon the land!'
`Soon our drug manufacturers will provide with some anal suppositories to protect you from the contagion; nonetheless, until then, it is absolutely necessary that you wear your garlic wreaths at all times, on pain of forfeiture of life and livelihood.
So saying, he again mounted his pig, and galloped off into the setting sun.
The all of us had a good chortle and Gino somehow found another bottle of grappa, and we all were jolly and merry.