“So you're telling what?” demanded the Slurp, “You got something you wanna say?” His tone was agitated . The beer in his hand was warm, and the July sun beat down on the patio like a 15-year-old boy locked overnight in a porno shop.
Squeak the Leak held a beer that was still cold. In fact, the hand he held it with was encased in a block of ice. The Slurp leaned closer to Squeak the Leak as fire ants crawled up his legs and bit their way into his Batman shorts.
“I mean, COME ON”. Damn fire ants, he thought, and then remembered there was a Rockford Files marathon, all the episodes featuring Issac Hayes as Ghandi, Jimbo's pal from The Joint. Squeak the Leak sat down in a lawn chair.
“Your harmonica playing sounds like fifty-two fornicating accordions being tuned by a wood pulper” he said finally. The Slurp was having none of this jive and reached into a pocked and produced a coin with a Roman numeral on it.
“I HAVE THIS MUCH TIME TO KICK YOUR CHAIR TESTER, SQUEAK THE LEAK/“
Squeak the Leak's superpower was time teleportation, and in the blink of an eye he zapped The Slurp back to Rudford's Diner,1949, sitting at the counter looking down at a plate of bacon and eggs, Sunnyside up, arranged to look like a happy face.
“Hey, you gotta take a break and RELAX” said the short-order. It was Mussolini, working his side job. He cooked with a series of broad hand gestures.
