Morton Salt, by way of Cambridgeshire, restored abandoned Xeroxing machines in a small office behind the Seder’s grocer. He learned how to fix and restore broken Xeroxing machines from flash-cards he bought from the legless man who bought them from a man with no nose and a thread-torn ear. Castelfranco Emilia Emilia-Romagna Italy, Bucharest, Bucuresti Romania, Sutton Coldfield, the West Midlands UK, Lattelekom, Riga on Riga, Ruiselede, West-Vlaanderen Belgium, Chambry, Rhone-Alpes the Republic of France, Aliso Viejo California, the Bound States of America, Magyarorszag, Budapest Hungary, Jelgava, Jelgavas somewhere far away in Europe, Denderleeuw, Oost-Vlaanderen Belgium, Rochefort, Namur Belgium and Seoul, Seoul-t'ukpyolsi the Republic of Korea all had similar shops, all experienced at restoring and repairing old and abandoned Xeroxing machines.
There is no Morton Salt, by way of Cambridgeshire or Seoul-t'ukpyolsi, other than the one you put on you’re front steps to desiccate ice. The man in the hat made him up, desiccating him from old snapshots and magazine articles. Morton Salt is a Xerox of a faint image of a person who looked interesting enough to make a Xerox from, nothing more. There is no place, here or hereto after, called Cambridgeshire, or a dinghy made from Pop-siècle sticks, they too are snapshots and ideas pilfered from a magazine, Xeroxed and passed off as originals.
Dejesus knew a man with a cockeye who was an accomplished gunslinger, having gunslinged almost everyone worthy of gunslinging. His name was Roquefort Simms. Cockeyed Simms the gunslinger lived in a shanty-shack behind the Waymart across from the aqueduct not far from the Seder grocer. He had a dog, a foxhound, with a drag-anchor leg and one ear, the missing ear having been nicked off by a ricochet. The dog, a foxhound with a drag-anchor leg and one ear (the missing ear having been nicked off by a ricochet) learned how to clean and reload his master’s gun, a six-shooter with a hairpin trigger, from a magazine he stole from the barber’s shop when his master, Roquefort Simms, was getting a haircut and a shave. He learned how to read the magazine from a magazine he stole from the library when the alms man was off on a tangent somewhere, or so the legless man said.
There is no Morton Salt, by way of Cambridgeshire or Seoul-t'ukpyolsi, other than the one you put on you’re front steps to desiccate ice. The man in the hat made him up, desiccating him from old snapshots and magazine articles. Morton Salt is a Xerox of a faint image of a person who looked interesting enough to make a Xerox from, nothing more. There is no place, here or hereto after, called Cambridgeshire, or a dinghy made from Pop-siècle sticks, they too are snapshots and ideas pilfered from a magazine, Xeroxed and passed off as originals.
Dejesus knew a man with a cockeye who was an accomplished gunslinger, having gunslinged almost everyone worthy of gunslinging. His name was Roquefort Simms. Cockeyed Simms the gunslinger lived in a shanty-shack behind the Waymart across from the aqueduct not far from the Seder grocer. He had a dog, a foxhound, with a drag-anchor leg and one ear, the missing ear having been nicked off by a ricochet. The dog, a foxhound with a drag-anchor leg and one ear (the missing ear having been nicked off by a ricochet) learned how to clean and reload his master’s gun, a six-shooter with a hairpin trigger, from a magazine he stole from the barber’s shop when his master, Roquefort Simms, was getting a haircut and a shave. He learned how to read the magazine from a magazine he stole from the library when the alms man was off on a tangent somewhere, or so the legless man said.
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