Suiter Croaks

Then, as the Saxons coated the mice, we drifted back into the heap. The tiniest of tugs kept me from seeping through the kelp. As a clot parked at a nexus, so was I before my sister.
This morning crouton ensnared Sylvia. We of the heap typically condemn Sylvia. As the coats wore thin and the mice began to redevelop, it was understood that we became the time before the load would bear down.
Children could vanish if they saw their long-since-severed aunt remain. But the back of the stalks kept them interested. This meant that mastery came easily to them, as long as they remembered.
One by one the heaps dissembled as the shame lifted, and the mice grew. It’s as if this year’s leaves hadn’t grown quite as heavy. With a punch, the child fell backwards… his eye swelling already.
“Why, after I gave you this many raisins, can’t we become surrogates? I am ailing Thusy… I will punch you in the face again.” Beoc, the feeder of the heap, a savage 73 year old Oregonian woman, again punched 11 year old Thusy in the face. This time his tooth remained in her knuckle.
A fog filled valley in the earliest morning. A clean, wet smell and a toothless 11 year old boy being destroyed by an old woman. Beoc’s wobbly, though still intimidating roar filled the valley, turning the heaps toward her. Thusy knew no better and so let her.
As the afternoon wrote parted on this time, the boy sighted loam. Feverishly as he could, more than he could, so that if he could definite deflation of Rose. Sac of straddle mustn’t estuary in the damn juice decision.
Queuing a meager leak is said many times on many tokens this many votive, dear belly belt. Queer melting pelt. Bag of soft shit. Damaging my Algonquin meat separator is that way over matching several day’s dealing daughter. Feel the slaughter pause under simple nostril cherries.
Cluck above my knees or I’ll pack more things into you as hard as I can. Agent Blue-Stirrup mobilizes parchment zanowary so we could all mocha.
Thusy, now grown, returns to the valley of heaps hoping to tear through Beoc. Old as she may be, she does remain. There is a mess in her.
A suiter croaks into her dampest of queaks as they lie there, satiated and sound. She rests under the beads of her sweat, on a soggy mat. Thusy bursts in.
“A suiter croaks into her dampest of queaks…”
He finds her lacking. A well chosen corner is dusted off and saved for her remains. He kills her quacking by gagging her with a sock. He flogs her with a rock. Her head splits and pops. They do this dance all night long.
A shudder quivers her udders as they finish their routine. The cheese plate is disheveled and the wine is drunk. All horses come to quitting. This fiddle parquet meanders purnive ovulation.
Dablinantex Ochelgrot watched. Many things detour mortality so that’s how come jealousy workers vote at Morgan.
Jazz exercises woke the amber ambulance burger bitch. This is the triumphant resumption of our hourly shouting pageant. Match thistle clip against boney Tod’s gulch.
Who is the loose man-jacket that welcomes B Honda, cousin of E? This is a joke murder we all paid for. Can’t we spot this cardboard at the buffet trench? That lamp poison muck muck bucket pup.


