the mimps, 5
L. Mimp: (her busts reflaked): Do I eat, wed?
A Cheapie: That galaxy clots space. I want beer. Let my Cheapies go!
He talcs a finely-grained bust of Wotan with ear salt and pine-nuts. The bust retreats into the wings and explodes.
Deduction of M. Mimp that his spine is wrapped around a cylinder of night much like a bony barberpole. He waxes.
M. Mimp: (his dusts redounded): Do I smell, shred?
B Cheapie: There is a Jack-O-Lantern in the toe of my right sock!
She plaits a huge beret for the trilith that would have taken the place of mighty Thor, then dances, beeping.
T. Mimp: (its gusts redressed): Do I hear Ed?
Content is declared brilliant and more, unimprovable at this point by a rayed visionary irising porthole of Frigg, who erupts cantilevered out of the flyspace.
T. Mimp: (transgressing the pronunciation of perfection): Where is C Cheapie? And how come we never went to Ultima Thule?