"Excuse me, but..." she leaned in closer to me and whispered. "You didn't give me the letters." I had absolutely no idea what this woman on Bus 87 was talking about. She looked at my front-lower quadrant, easily my best quadrant. "I need a shipment of scarlet letters, boy. I got me some adulterin' to do." This modern adaptation was gritty, no doubt. Hest on was to play Hester Prynne. Charlton rode his elderly electric scooter down to the gun range. Time to clear the mind to allow himself to get into the Red Scarlet role. He opened his fly just like they had taught him to at the Adult Extention Class he had taken at San Diego Community College. The course had been WHAT MAKES FLIES FLY AND TICKS TICK. The class was a follow-up to an existentialist melittology elective, "WHAT MAKES BEES BE". What he really needed was a course on how to flee the hellhole that is California. For though California was the land of the American Dream, it's glittering gardens hid heaps of dead bees, which had been killed by overuse of pesticides. He could no longer bear to own Monsanto stocks. The devastation beneath the garden and the buzzing of lobbyists had finally reached his heart. The American Dream belonged not only to those who could reach out and snatch it from the mouths of babes, it also belonged to the televangelists, the pool sharks, the payday lenders, and the politicians who in their heyday paid off hookers and junkies like it was a walk in the park..."BUT WAIT!", he shouted in my face, "Why must everyone here be sooooo full of absolute Bogg 'o' Bright? 'Ade Edmonson' corpsing? It's like watching a disheveled dipsomaniac conjuring labial glands out of..."And he collapsed in a flood of vomit



1 Woab's photo

which stained the scarlet letters that had been meant to stain Heston Prynne.

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