"So you're saying, nowadays, that it was Kirsten Dunst, a celebrity, a woman who's acted since a girl of three, burned to death on film ... someone who's actually kissed Spider Man -- hired some girl off the streets in Romania to come shack up with you at the Chelsea Savoy? That this 'Ensecured' somehow had some dalliance/parlance with the classics of moderately recent European literary history, like Tesserat?"
The raindrops splat heavy unto the cobalt subway vents, and at least prickly rats were getting water, thriving. "Your soul could be chewed up to pulp for implicating something like that," said Roab, who had just walked out, and had been waiting for Ponsemby this evening since about 10:32pm, five minutes earlier.
"Why the hell did you call me here?" asked Ponsemby. "Downtown just becomes annoying after the grid. After sundown and the tourists, it's just a bunch of trollops, and I don't say that in any small degree. I would bet an honest man my soul to find me an epistle of an apostle that shards earnestness in as much a fucking kingdom as your location of choice, tonight." He looked up and down at this Roab, who was in another world, apparently.
"You never hang out with, and I got bored of all my other, other friends," said Roab, stretching in the bask of the outside candelabra of this bar.
"Fuck," said Ponsemby.
"I know you prefer the girls on the lower side of downtown very specifically," smiled Roab, "so, I figured, I may as well call you. But more than that -- lo, and behold: You came!"
"This is like walking, ears pulled, by your puritan mother into a strip bar, just to be informed about what everything "really is"," replied Ponsemby, as they started off into the street. Roab tried to pat his back, but was met with something in leather with sharp teeth. The night was dark, tonight, and may have been daunting. It may have been inky, refusing to devulge its most sunken secrets. A bittery bitching night of sand to dine on.
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