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Any epiphany where sorry is a hard man.

fig 12.) Without any judgement, it's just shit in the shape of a cock.

"At first there's a bird house. Then a bee's hive and finally a short mountain steps up before the two gas stations come to view. In the wash room, there's an exam with many questions about, Poo."
"Poo?"
"Poo."
Up above the streets, the chambers with swivel chairs are empty. He-Man's gone home for the night and Masters-at-Arms Guy waits with the clowns and other wig police. There's bright pills, even a few left on the table in a lumpy bag. Vote is printed on it's side, in blue with four bright stars.
"Lumpy bag of toads is more like it," the Masters-at-Arms grumbles from his stool.
"That's what's passing for goodly wig to wig talk these days," he mutters, breathing in and breathing out through his mouth. "The city has no qualms watching us as we go about our little spider-business. But cast a wide enough net and they'd find one of them unicorns with an eyepatch or a deviant monkey-attorney, Serena Serena-Ha. Who knows the danger that really lurks below the gunshots. What can measures the distance between our paychecks and our pornography. As Cities go, this city really likes watching. It likes patrolling the streets at night with its bald toothed Mayor in hand. Quickly, and quickly's a must. That's one of those mistakes."
"The shovel on the bar is a tool for between drinks," The suit that I'm wearing is brown. It has frayed elbows and a bad split up the back. A quiet knock and then another quick one at the basement's door. "Wait here."
The door opens and a head creeps in. "Let's keep the balance in our shed shall we," The old slump-tinker reaches round for one of the brooms on the wall. "I really like it in the shed," he affirms before leaving.
"The last gas station, the one the left is where you'll have to turn."
"Turn left?"
"No, you turn at the gas station," The Masters-at Arms comes back down from the door. "But remember, the shovel on the bar is only a tool for between drinks."
The hole I've been digging is deeper then before. Earlier, when it seemed more casual, it stayed ankle deep forever. Now that I'm in it up to my tits. I can make out all the gum that's under the closest barstools.
"It's not about your grandfather or even genetics," He puts his hammer on the bar beside the shovel. Let's-Call-Him-Carl, that's Carl, like the Beach Boy Carl. Beach Boy Carl pours himself a long wet line of brown bourbon. Before pulling a plastic straw from his vest he says, "I've never known why but you start talking about grandfathers and things get themselves dialed up. They start to sound bigger and more full. But no matter how late things go, it's never too late enough to do my job."
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