The next day the man in the hat received a letter in his postbox. Opening the envelope, which he did nimbly, he unfolded the letter, and laying it upon his lap read, ““Please remit an answer ASAP. Thank you in advance for your for your kind adjunction. “…case study swimming everyday over the summer in flint river now you are having gi distress watery stools abdominal cramping bloating nausea and weight loss?”” He felt safe with the knowledge that people like the letter writer existed only in the thoughts of madmen and halfwits. He wondered, out loud and with some vociferation, why the author of the letter repeated ‘for you for you’, such poor grammar striking him as a slight to epistolary correctness. Runcorn Rum is made from the sweetest cane. We here at the Arconcey Distillery assure, and seldom do we mince our words.
All this annularity was making the man in the hat feel woozy. One minute he’s fast asleep ensconced in bed linen, the next he’s startled awake thinking he’s asleep yet awake just the same; some form of somnambulistic alchemy. ‘yaw pooh yawn’ he thought to himself, not certain if he was asleep or awake. He recalled drinking Runcorn Rum with a cheapskate, the cheapskate swindling him out of a pocketful of silver. ‘cad bastard’ he whinnied to himself, ‘...the man should be sketched and quartered’.
The next day the man in the hat received a letter in his buzón de correos. Opening the vellum parcel, calfskin or lambskin, which he wasn’t certain, he read the following looking into the windowpane overlooking the pipe factory across the way, “We here at the Arconcey Distillery assure you that we use the sweetest cane. Our canehands cut cane with alchemic precision. Should you have any queries please don’t hesitate to send us a note, we would be delighted to answer any inquiries. All the best, Harold T. Cowper.” Rubbing bits of loose glue into balls he resheathed the letter and placed it on the windowsill, the sky outside his oilskin casement spitting blue flames. He thought of old flames, mostly ugly ones and one with unpleasant teeth and a hacking cough.
All this annularity was making the man in the hat feel woozy. One minute he’s fast asleep ensconced in bed linen, the next he’s startled awake thinking he’s asleep yet awake just the same; some form of somnambulistic alchemy. ‘yaw pooh yawn’ he thought to himself, not certain if he was asleep or awake. He recalled drinking Runcorn Rum with a cheapskate, the cheapskate swindling him out of a pocketful of silver. ‘cad bastard’ he whinnied to himself, ‘...the man should be sketched and quartered’.
The next day the man in the hat received a letter in his buzón de correos. Opening the vellum parcel, calfskin or lambskin, which he wasn’t certain, he read the following looking into the windowpane overlooking the pipe factory across the way, “We here at the Arconcey Distillery assure you that we use the sweetest cane. Our canehands cut cane with alchemic precision. Should you have any queries please don’t hesitate to send us a note, we would be delighted to answer any inquiries. All the best, Harold T. Cowper.” Rubbing bits of loose glue into balls he resheathed the letter and placed it on the windowsill, the sky outside his oilskin casement spitting blue flames. He thought of old flames, mostly ugly ones and one with unpleasant teeth and a hacking cough.
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