Carbuncles and Welts and Fly-machines

‘It’ll take the legs right out from under you, and then some’. ‘I’ve had worse, maybe worse than worse, it’ll never harm a hair on my head, it won’t, I’m telling you, not a fucking hair, not a one’. ‘It’ll give you carbuncles and welts, bigger than a house, it will, so it will’. ‘Nary a welt, or a carbuncle for all I care, I’m immune to those sorts of things, always have been, for as long as I can disremember, maybe longer’. ‘You’re a fool to think you’re immune from it; it just isn’t all that simple, at all in fact, quite complicated and all’. ‘And all and all, is that all you can say?’ That and this and what and about what is what the shamble leg man and the alms man talked about one rainy afternoon in May. Being at odds with one another was common, as anything even or remotely uniform was uncommon, uneven, between the two. An even keel or fuselage, as they both fancied aeronautics and flying-machines, was a rarity, as uncommon and rare as sun on a cloudy day.