Barbican Noose and José Amorós stood two abreast admiring the flushing meadows, the sun rising above the seawall filling the landscape with a yellow tinge. Admirers of yellow hues, they watched the sun rising higher above the seawall landscape, the feasters queuing for the Feast of the Hopeful Sinner. ‘but today is the twenty-eighth’ said Noose alarmingly. That morning, far away far, the Guayaquil constabulary was busy beating confessions out of cheapskates and social dissidents. Jefe Guayas, the head of the Guayaquil Militar, and his assistant Marratxi De Bono, himself a keen constabulant, were convinced that a Marxist haberdasher was producing contraband whore’s gloves from his factory on the Islas of Baleares Payerne, a crow’s throw from the Isle of Warwickshire, home to Fribourg Studley, his chickens and a blind dog. As the story goes, or went, as stories fade with time and forgetfulness, Fribourg Studley, known for his exacting perspicuity, lived alone on the Isle of Warwickshire, his only companions a few featherless chickens and a blind dog with mange.
‘these are strange times, strange indeed’ said Dejesus looking into the mirror, his mirror image reflected in the milky white sclera of his green eyes. Up until today he had never heard of Walleyes Worrall or Rudolf Fallada, the poor sod from the Waldau Sanatorium, nor Ulla Fallada nee Losch, born in Greifswald, the Deacon, Mrs. Muriel Ciolkowska or Joaquin Da Bara, great godson of Madeira and Stanislaus Jolaño, nor had he heard of Jolaño Kalisz Aldershot and Foggia Puglia, who’s names, one would think, would stick in one’s thoughts like porridge, Montferrat Froe of York Somerset or the Feast of the Hopeful Sinner, Barbican Noose and José Amorós he’d once met, but had forgotten where and when, as for the Guayaquil constabulary, headed by Jefe Guayas of the Guayaquil Militar, and his assistant Marratxi De Bono, he had no recollection, nor did he know the Marxist haberdasher who manufactured whore’s gloves from his factory on the Islas of Baleares Payerne, a crow’s throw from the Isle of Warwickshire where Fribourg Studley lived with featherless chickens and a blind dog with mange, whom he met once, the meeting ending in an all-out fist-fight encouraged by his dislike for chickens.
‘these are strange times, strange indeed’ said Dejesus looking into the mirror, his mirror image reflected in the milky white sclera of his green eyes. Up until today he had never heard of Walleyes Worrall or Rudolf Fallada, the poor sod from the Waldau Sanatorium, nor Ulla Fallada nee Losch, born in Greifswald, the Deacon, Mrs. Muriel Ciolkowska or Joaquin Da Bara, great godson of Madeira and Stanislaus Jolaño, nor had he heard of Jolaño Kalisz Aldershot and Foggia Puglia, who’s names, one would think, would stick in one’s thoughts like porridge, Montferrat Froe of York Somerset or the Feast of the Hopeful Sinner, Barbican Noose and José Amorós he’d once met, but had forgotten where and when, as for the Guayaquil constabulary, headed by Jefe Guayas of the Guayaquil Militar, and his assistant Marratxi De Bono, he had no recollection, nor did he know the Marxist haberdasher who manufactured whore’s gloves from his factory on the Islas of Baleares Payerne, a crow’s throw from the Isle of Warwickshire where Fribourg Studley lived with featherless chickens and a blind dog with mange, whom he met once, the meeting ending in an all-out fist-fight encouraged by his dislike for chickens.
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