Fruit.

The brass, and the iron stringed contraptions.

How did it happen? Let me guess, that's a prostitute. Yes, I can Tell by the way it's eyes turn inside like convulsions in a whirling hacking motion. Can you be honest? Because I can get you to Charles street in back in under an hour.

"Hold on Cupcake."
I have it easy like hard boiled lemon genitals cut with baby laxatives and my very own grandiose granola snack packs.
"So it's formal all of a sudden?"
Pay the damn machine it's f*****g forty three cents all ready, I gotta fly a bird to Foxbank and study the succulent behavior of the nearby burnouts.

"Keep your hands off FruitPie."

Author's Note

Get your hands out of town.