Following her usual liquid breakfast, the haberdasher tended to make a virtue out of necessity by stealing a power nap whenever her legs put their support on hold. Locating her under the calamity of fabric was the easy part: the sound of brass bands brawling was a constant emanation from her rear end. Her B-flat was enough to choke a swineherd.
The application of coffee seemed apposite, and after liberally coating her chops with three pitchers of the hot stuff we were rewarded with enthusiastic hugs and warm belches. Addressing our great indoors, she avowed, would be her pleasure, not least because it would get her loutish partner out from under her feet – quite literally in fact, as the lumpy rug on which we stood was concurrently serving as the sot’s duvet.
Though easier to rouse, Vincenzo was much harder to control, being as he was unable to articulate anything more complex than hunger, cold turkey or the irrepressible urge to roister. Fortunately we were prepared, and at the first sign of life filled his mitts with grog and his gob with snouts. Unfortunately, not all of said gaspers were inserted correctly, and the burning baccy inside his mouth failed to deliver the desired palliation.
Demolition Man
Vincenzo “The Choker” Croaker
Likes: nights on the tiles
Dislikes: knights in white satin
Vincenzo “The Choker” Croaker
Likes: nights on the tiles
Dislikes: knights in white satin
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