The city tried to make the new train station look like it was built in the 1900s, meaning there were many structures feigning an American Gothic style, meaning that someone in Sacramento was at a drawing board working against deadline to contrive an appearance of wood buildings with lots of fancy filigree carved to simulate the stone edifices in European capitals.
"Goddamnitall to hell" said Tracee, she of many tattoos and muscles and a t shirt that read LED'S GYM," the train is late and all this gap toothed simulation of an already repulsive design choice from a bygone era is making that burger I had come alive again something fierce, you betcha". She paused and let out a belch that was a gargling eruption of gas and sound effects from a Mad Magazine flexi-disc insert.
Tracee was a beauty from Bakersfield looking for an good-looking man with a wallet full of bottle cap cork. What she got was a Herculean moron named Flattop Goonspoon, thick of muscle, wide of torso, slim of wit.
"I like trains" said "Flattop," the way they sound gives me a bone to pick with the spotters at Led's Gym, where the surfers meet the vatos for all those sudden death games of Go Fuck Your Fist with a deck of 49 cards".
Tracee scratched her nose as she pulled a ten foot clup with a nail through the top portion from her coin purse.
"Damn train is late" she uttered, her voice taking on a lilt that was suitable for a cascading reading of any number of recitations of an Absorbine Jr. ingredients list.
"I love you Tracee" said Flattop, flexing his muscles in the reflection coming from the glass of a ticket window.
"Yeah, I know" she said and smacked him upside the head with the club she yanked from her coin purse, " I love playing Swat the Fly with you, babe..."
