easy as

Arnold had brought them here to this chicken laden place to sit just outside. He wanted them to be witnesses in case Grey Scale Kimball launched a full, um, scale investigation of the two.

“So many chickens around here, Kevin C.,” Kevin E spoke to his lover while peering around him at the other side of Bridgeman’s. “I can count 1 (pause), 2 (pause), 3. Like us, hehe. 1 (Kevin E. points to Kevin C.), 2 (Kevin E points to Kevin A. on his other side), 3 (Kevin E. points himself).”

“That’s very good, Kevin E.” Kevin C. pats his knee this time. “Remember the word ‘appli-cation’ from yesterday? There were 3 squiggly letters — 1, 2, 3. Then you said the next letter, a straight one. What number would *that* be in word.”

“Errr. 3 again?” Kevin E. guessed incorrectly.

“No, that’s not right.”

“Shh, guys,” spoke up Kevin A. — as stated before, the smartest of the group. Or least dumb I suppose I could put it more accurately. But that’s not really fair to them. They’re all sweet as can be. Especially C. and *especially* especially E. Sweetgrass sweet for those two. Kevin A. didn’t quite make the cut and had to remain straight. He is just outside looking in. Outside with Space Ghost at the Northeast Quadrant that’s filled out nicely in the meantime. “I hear someone coming,” he continued after listening a bit more. He was just outside looking in again. But the big dining table hid the supposed action.

Kevin C. looked up and down the road running beside Bridgeman’s but saw nothing. Kevin E. followed his eyes and then looked himself, a copycat act. He was often in copy mode. Kevin C. then realized what Kevin A. was talking about.

If that moaning would stop inside, Kevin E. thought,  maybe I could concentrate on the road and see what Kevin A. was talking about. He peered further down the road right — direction 1 he decided to call it to keep organized in the moment, as Kevin C. had taught him recently. He studied the old Archer place from a distance; could almost see that blue band or whatever playing at the dance pad over there.

Then direction, um, 2: Airport tower this way.

Still no sign of someone coming. The moaning accelerated inside, reaching a climactic point just as Kevin E. uncharacteristically shouted “Shut up!” to them, “I can’t think with all that going on.”

—–

Chicken Itza and Marcus walked out of Bridgeman’s, looked at the Kevins lined up in a row outside, and feigned turning red. “Eh heh,” laughed Marcus nervously. “Er, just some bad chicken. We *ate* some bad chicken.”

“Yeah, *bad* bad,” accented Chicken Itza beside him. Bad as in *good*, he thought to himself as part of the cover up.

Kevin E. realized what Kevin A. was talking about.

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