“Nay!”
once slashed at my stomach with a penknife- like a crafty red squirrel
- every time a movie features punk rockers
- sang three little boys together
- smeared himself with Susan’s lipstick
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“Nay!” roared Bruce Pamplemousse pretentiously. “It is Tycho whose claim is false!”
“Prove it!” I shouted. “Show us your own certificate.”
“I don’t have it with me,” Bruce whined.
“So, go get it,” I retorted.
Bruce fixed his gaze on Tessa. “No one is less entitled to rule the moon than your father. He once slashed at my stomach with a penknife, like a crafty red squirrel with a penknife. I was just a boy, and he attacked me. He’s so uncouth and unmannered, every time a movie features punk rockers I expect one of them to be him.”
Tessa leaned to me and whispered, “As far as I know, my father’s never met any of the Pamplemousses.”
Meanwhile, the talent show’s finale was trying to resume but devolving into chaos. The performers weren’t waiting for their cues. “Hey now, get your butt off the stage,” sang three little boys together. In the wings, Fleur demanded of another woman, “Susan, get this mess under control!”
Susan marched out to Bruce to tell him his time was up. Bruce winked at her and put his arms around her, and smeared himself with Susan’s lipstick in the process.
I yelled, “Get a room, you two!” Sending Susan off alone with Bruce Pamplemousse felt wrong, but she seemed to know what she was doing.
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