Part I


"You're a bastard," exclaimed Mrs. Filliminasnot-hedron-tetrahedron.

"Oh, so now I'm the bastard?" said the boss. His swivel chair creaked; his name was Donald Swivelchaircreak.

He touched his smooth mahogany pen. "You, Mrs. Filliminasnot-hedron-tetrahedron, are the bastard."

"Well, I guess we're all bastards," she snifled.

"Yes, Mrs. Filliminasnot-hedron-tetrahedron, we are bastards."

The two bastards sat unpleasantly in their chairs waiting to see who would break the awkward silence.

It was Mr. Swivelchaircreak. He said, "This doesn't seem to be going anywhere."

They snifled.

They were bastards. All two of them. Suddenly, Swivelfart dove out of his chair and jumped through his plateglass window. It wasn't suicide, since he knew about the huge awnings that had been installed - big, comfortable, blue and green awnings. He fell through them slowly. They were his puff-clouds, his sunny summer savior. He was swaying his arms. In slow motion he whispered love notes to the birds while falling, awning after awning rolling spinning spawning. He fell through awnings and flapping he floated fluffily in the awnings yawning. His satin awnings felt so good. Slowly in the breeze the Senator, Mr. Creakwheel, swiveled in his awnings, rolling and carelessly stumbling, swaying and pivoting and rolling in the yawnings. Light blue sky and mellow yellow sun - oops, there it is in my eye. Sunshine in my eye and I'm rolling in awnings. Sway roll roll sway awning makes me feel gay. Gay in awnings is all I feel. The sky is blue. The awnings are you. I'm very soft like a baby, and awnings are my satin this afternoon, falling and falling in the sky. To the sky with awnings hanging behind. Just awnings behind. Swaying. Mrs. Filliminasnot-hedron-tetrahedron also climbed in between the broken jagged glass and with only a small nicking of the hand with shiny broken glass edge, she floated into awnings. Blood now, and the hedron dame, and awnings. Blood and the Senator Creakwheel and that Mrs. bastard woman and a summer day. A slow slow slow summer day in the awnings. Rolling in the fabric. The fabric billowing back upward into the sky. Rolling back down in the breeze. Far far in the sky, close, close back in the sway of falling into the awnings. Immeasurable capacities unfolding into peaceful careless dissipation. Energy reaching entropy. The breeze has won. Ha Ha. The awning has won. Hear Ye,awning. You won.

Part II


Later that afternoon Donald Swivelchaircreak had a dentist appointment. He was pumped for the appointment because he liked the waiting room ambiance. Really he had to use the lavatoire, and he knew that the dentist had a clean lavatoire.

Wrong again, swivelschmuck. There was green crud on the toilet seats, piss on the floor, someone had vomited in the sink. This was no blue awning affair. A supposedly sterile environment was putrid.

Later in the dentist's chair Swivelfart noticed hairs wound up in the polisher unit. Someone else's spoodge was in the rinse bowl. The back molar X-Ray cards had been pre-bitten. The bib had blood and pus from another. The hygienist started picking her nose with that pointy scraper. Problem is, that pointy thing scarred the inner-nose tissue. Blood came out and got on Swivler's lap. The hygienist went over by the window, squatted, and crapped.

Part III


That was enough for Swivelhead. He jumped out of his dentist's plateglass window. The comfortable, soft silky green wonderful awnings were removed the day before for cleaning. "Ouch," he cried while splattering on the warm gentle pavement.