"Let the dice fall where they may" he said.

"Let the dice fall where they may" he said. "But these are dice made from the bezoar we dug from your stomach last month". "It didn't kill me then and it won't --" he started
before being smacked sideways by the butt of a Colt 45. "Shut up Calvin!" This wasn't the holiday party he had expected based on the Evite. Nobody had mentioned the parlor games or
That Colt 45 wasn't the malt liquor he and his brother used to get drunk on in middle school. Those were the days. Good times, indeed. Instead, he
applied to the liquor board to start an organization to regulate malt liquor. His dream would be that Inglewood would be to malt liquor what Champagne is to sparkling wine. Why
shouldn't his plan work? He had a novel idea and a steady supply of customers who would lap up his offerings like cats to cream, fed only on malt liquor and stale depression.
Then he would purge those ideas like cats choking on furballs with hints of Colt 45. His plan would ultimately fail as the erector set installer lacked the - uh - right tool to
put together all this Swedish flat-packed furniture. Whose idea was it anyway? He had no idea where to begin.
So, he decided to call on the greatest interior decorator who ever lived, who happened to be a really good friend
named Mike. "You've got to help me with this room. I just don't have the designing experience that you have" he said. Mike looked at the horrid color combinations and the
walls started to move and swirl into one another. "What the --," Mike managed to get out before waking up in his own bed. The alarm slowly increased before slapping it off. "Damn."

Started: 2010-12-05 05:23:12
Finished: 2011-01-17 00:32:24

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