“Here, he turns down the page and brushes sandy hair over well worn eyes. Two other people are definitely watching him. Oh, sure, they look like they’re only interested in his dryer, but that’s, after all, what they’re supposed to look like!”
In the hollow echoing of a corrugated cylinder, spinning endlessly round and round, Dik Thompson ups the gain on his transceiver. His ears are pierced by a whine of inestimable vintage. Oooh. Feedback; shit! He wants desperately to get out of the dryer, wants only to quench the flame of that upstart young sociopath and go home to a placid evening tying his wife Harlan up in bonds of plaited gefilte fish. Alas, there’s 25 minutes left til his trench coat is dry. What’s worse; he forgot the Cling-Free. He can feel all the polyester in his life begin to clot and pull at this throat; “Papa, Papa,” it seems to be screaming, in a dialect just this side of Boris Badenov. You think Perkasie’s a weird place!