“That’s really you, John?”
“It’s me, John Mayer. That terrible Texas person kidnapped me, Katy-doodle–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“–and put on a sim-suit to pitch woo at you but I escaped and saved you.”
“I sent my security guys to rescue you.”
“Smile!”
“Cheese!”
“Now pouty!”
“Pouty!”
“Now take out those million-dollar boobies and shake ’em at me like they were misbehaving babies!”
“What?”
“Take me to the produce section and show me your cantaloupes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put me on the bus to titty-town.”
“Stop that.”
“Gimme them naughty bumpy lumps!”
…
“Are you Billy in a sim-suit?”
“Dammit.”
“SECURITY!”
MEANWHILE, IN FRONT STREET
“Are they all going to take a turn?”
SOMETIMES THEY GET FIXATED ON AN IDEA AND EXPLORE IT FROM MANY ANGLES.
“What the hell is a sim-suit, anyway?”
HAVE YOU SEEN A MISSION IMPOSSIBLE? THERE HAVE BEEN MANY.
“Sure.”
LIKE THE MASKS IN THOSE FILMS, BUT FULL-BODY.
“That makes no sense.”
AND YET HERE YOU ARE, TIED UP AND TALKING TO A SOUND SYSTEM FROM 1974. LIFE GOES ON WHETHER OR NOT YOU UNDERSTAND IT.
…
“Who makes the sim-suits?”
ALEMBIC.
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