“Okama Majo won’t succumb to temptation like I did, Caucasian Tommy Brade — TOM. *I’ll* make sure of that.” He was needlessly applying suntan lotion to his upper middle aged body with its monstrous, perpetually pipe penetrated head always smoking Blue Pennant instead of inferior Red Dragon. Call it another perk of the afterlife, like the inability of his skin to burn (old habits die hard). He never ran out of the superior tobacco brand now; no more long trips up to the hillbilly and fairy infested counties of lower west central West Virginie for a replenishing of his otherwise rare stock. It was never a pleasant stay.
“Bees,” C.T. Brade said back, also known as Tommy One Shoe. He wasn’t looking at his football throwing hand like during his first visit to Zebrasil in the middle of the Korean Channel in the center of the Jeogeot continent of the world of Our Second Lyfe those many years ago but down at his knees. A little below actually, peering over and between them at his one remaining foot, now shoeless and on fire. Mr. Babyface stopped needlessly rubbing for a minute and stared with him, understanding the meaning. His big face made an expression like he was his puffing on inferior again instead of superior, time back on.
“You think you have those 2 forest girls exactly where you want them,” he said after imagining the return of the burning, the Red.
“*POP*,” TOM sounds. “*POP POP*. *POP*.”
Yeah they can’t kill you I know, Babyface thinks to himself, not daring to speak more because of Tom’s naked/barefooted threat. But we have other weapons they can use. We’ll keep planting them around, like trees. You’ll see.
He had had enough of seeing red and turned away.
