Elvis was black.

“And these wings? They’re called *Dali* in the description. Dali didn’t even do the butterfly painting. We all know that now.”

“Auditions in 10 minutes,” gruffed Mossman in his deep, scary voice. A pussycat underneath it all he is, though. And calm, really patient and calm. The ability to live over 400 years gives you such. But he also knew Baker Bloch didn’t like latecomers. Then he had an idea. “Tell that story to the male Baker. It might give you some type of edge over the others, Jiggy.”

“Iggy, actually.” But Mossman knew that. He was joking with him again. He jokes with everyone.

“Would you like some more coffee or would you rather switch to cigarettes, Jiggy.”

I know who Mossman is! After all these years.

—–

But there was more afoot tonight (of course!). Awkward afootness.

—–

“Wish me luck,” requested Colored TV.

“Break a leg up there, I suppose,” returned the Black and White, knowing he was doomed, wings or no wings.

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