A Symphony unto Oneself

Chapter 4

The Story The Authors

A shadow of suspicion crossed Marie's face. "Pray, Mr Tickles? That's a bit unlike you." She knew Mr Tickles well enough to be wary of any sort of personality changes he might feign. usually such episodes left her broke or broken. She took a careful step back to get an advantage if she needed to run.
"What the hell are you on now. Xtascy? Opium again? or is those foul dextroids you stole from my private stash a couple of months back?"
Socco tried to smile beatifically. It didn't work. Marie became even more suspicious. Lanark

Unable to control himself, Mr. Tickles picked up a large shovel lying conveniently nearby and bludgeoned the both of them to death.
When it was over, gobbets of blood, brains, and bone flecked the ground with the precise, cheery hues of a bouquet of carnations in pink, white, and red.
Mr. Tickles wiped the sweat from his brow. Would they never cease to plague him, these quarreling, useless dextroid fleabags? Would he never know peace?
Ah, fuck it, he sighed. Life is life. We go on regardless. This year its Dextroids, next years it'll be Binky and the Inflatable Flying Whifferschlumps, and the year after that, Baby Amphetamine -- "the doll with more energy than your own child!" And in the end, what did it matter, all that passed into our graves with us anyway. I'm getting old, thought the dwarf to himself. I even smell different. Philip

The Story	The Authors
A shadow of suspicion crossed Marie's face. "Pray, Mr Tickles? That's a bit unlike you." She knew Mr Tickles well enough to be wary of any sort of personality changes he might feign. usually such episodes left her broke or broken. She took a careful step back to get an advantage if she needed to run. "What the hell are you on now. Xtascy? Opium again? or is those foul dextroids you stole from my private stash a couple of months back?" Socco tried to smile beatifically. It didn't work. Marie became even more suspicious.	Lanark
Unable to control himself, Mr. Tickles picked up a large shovel lying conveniently nearby and bludgeoned the both of them to death. When it was over, gobbets of blood, brains, and bone flecked the ground with the precise, cheery hues of a bouquet of carnations in pink, white, and red. Mr. Tickles wiped the sweat from his brow. Would they never cease to plague him, these quarreling, useless dextroid fleabags? Would he never know peace? Ah, fuck it, he sighed. Life is life. We go on regardless. This year its Dextroids, next years it'll be Binky and the Inflatable Flying Whifferschlumps, and the year after that, Baby Amphetamine -- "the doll with more energy than your own child!" And in the end, what did it matter, all that passed into our graves with us anyway. I'm getting old, thought the dwarf to himself. I even smell different.	Philip

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