The Liepaja Stepbrothers were acquainted with the contrabandist’s, two of whom they met at a soirée put on by the Asian contrabandist the day following Ships Day, but had no business with them, preferring to do business with the contra contrabandist who were inferior hagglers but lassie-fare when it came to trading and swapping.
Hazel Johnson sold raw monks’ cheese from the back of a handcart, wedges for 34 cents, end-bits for 24 cents. The harridan’s sister met Hazel Johnson at the fry-up the day after Ships Day, the harridan’s sister dressed in a corker’s smock, Hazel Johnson in a tinsmith’s apron. The harridan’s sister said to Hazel Johnston ‘...end-bits are creamier…’. ‘…24 cents a dozen...’ said Hazel Johnston. ‘…half a dozen for 12½, and not a penny more…’ said the harridan’s sister and walked away.
Hazel Johnston never again came to Ships Day, or the day before or after. She took up her handcart and moved away to a place where the sun never shone and the sky always fell. She knew about the third whore’s glove, and she knew about those that claimed to be in possession of a fourth, and knowing this she knew that the fifth glove, which she kept wrapped in cheesecloth hidden beneath the creamier cheese, was a portend from God, and as with all portends best left hidden from querying eyes. That morning the shamble leg man awoke with s stitch in his neck, a colossal chuck of sky having fallen onto the back of his head crushing his vertebra into itty tiny bitty smithereens. Lifting himself from bed he stared skyward, the hole in his roof as round as a lamb’s belly.
Hazel Johnson sold raw monks’ cheese from the back of a handcart, wedges for 34 cents, end-bits for 24 cents. The harridan’s sister met Hazel Johnson at the fry-up the day after Ships Day, the harridan’s sister dressed in a corker’s smock, Hazel Johnson in a tinsmith’s apron. The harridan’s sister said to Hazel Johnston ‘...end-bits are creamier…’. ‘…24 cents a dozen...’ said Hazel Johnston. ‘…half a dozen for 12½, and not a penny more…’ said the harridan’s sister and walked away.
Hazel Johnston never again came to Ships Day, or the day before or after. She took up her handcart and moved away to a place where the sun never shone and the sky always fell. She knew about the third whore’s glove, and she knew about those that claimed to be in possession of a fourth, and knowing this she knew that the fifth glove, which she kept wrapped in cheesecloth hidden beneath the creamier cheese, was a portend from God, and as with all portends best left hidden from querying eyes. That morning the shamble leg man awoke with s stitch in his neck, a colossal chuck of sky having fallen onto the back of his head crushing his vertebra into itty tiny bitty smithereens. Lifting himself from bed he stared skyward, the hole in his roof as round as a lamb’s belly.
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