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More Lazy Excerpts #6

November 14, 2006

The puppy – whom the man had already decided to call Sig after the word victory in some obscure ancient Germanic language just because the name Fluffy plain sucked – came to a rest in front of a hot dog stand, which was understandable because it was still raining quite heavily, and it was the best shelter available. The man panted to a stop behind Sig and stopped to catch his breath. Finally he stood up and took a look around. The kid manning the hot dog stand gave him a look which clearly said “ If you ain’t getting a dog, get the hell out of my honorable establishment, you disreputable son of a madhouse peon!” Well everything except the latter half of it. The man got what he meant, however, and pulled out his wallet, which contained an impressive amount of matter within. He bought a hot dog and sat back to enjoy it, though the man caught the waves of discontent coming from the direction of the ground at his feet. Sig was positively glowering at him. The man gave up and gave Sig the sausage, leaving him with a relish filled bun, which in fact did not taste particularly bad at all.

There was a newspaper that had been left at the hot dog stand which the man picked up and flipped through with little interest, save for a small clip about one Fabian Thierry being present at the opening event of some large departmental store or other that he recalled had been so long ago he had actually rather forgotten about it. He wondered for a moment how the store was doing. The moment passed.

The man came onto one of those book lists that newspapers are so fond of making and read on, despite himself not having finished the last book he picked up… seven years ago. Granted, the book was very clearly named War and Peace, by a certain Russian writer by the name of T——. Forgive him. The list was not particularly long, and centered on the “Best Writers of the Modern Literary World” or some shit like that. One name specifically caught his interest – Alfred Kelsey, writer of such literary bestsellers as Divine Providence of the Cow State and Attack of the Killer Water Turbines Equipped on the Extensively Modified Tortured Fins of Nearly Extinct Sharks. The man mused on this for some time, watching the rain fall and munching on his empty hot dog bun.

The writer had peered at the shiny metal object (that was flitting across the sky a tad too quickly for it to be a plane) while his family chatted amiably. He pondered on whether to mention this, and decided not to, watching the object placidly instead.

I wonder if any of your extreme friends would have tattoos of hot chicks on them… ”Killian mused.

Hah, of course they do, Baldev, that’s why you ordinary people like labeling them ‘extreme’. They’re just the same as everyone else,” Ayla replied absently, munching on a scone.

Don’t call me by my middle name, Muirgen. I know they’re human, and that’s plenty enough for me. I’ve never met an ordinary person in my life, really… So where are you getting your chick put?” Killian inquired, smirking.

Nowhere you’d ever look,” Ayla said, and savored the look he made in response.

The object was indeed coming closer, the writer noted. As soon as the thought came to him, the object winked out of existence, as if in response. The writer jumped to his feet and stared at the sky.

What happened, Alfred?” Lani asked in surprise.

I bet your scones were just too good for him to handle, huh dad?” Ayla answered, with absolutely no hint of sarcasm in her voice. Killian hit her in the back of her head. “Ow – you arse – “

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