The round man with his red tie, rosy cheeks, and rotund
belly, runs, I kid, rumbles down the street. He makes a right turn on Rosalind
Ave., slips and rolls down the hill. On his riotous fall, he rams into a
registered nurse, passes rowdy bunch of punks, and crashes into a record store
owned by retired Randy Regal. Red Hot Chili Peppers play on the radio as the
two men share a rustic looks. The ringing of the store bell returns owners
glance to the store’s entrance revealing a rigid looking old lady with eyes
like rubies. She commands respect and when she has it she tells them a riddle.
The one who remarks correctly gets a great reward. The plump one goes to
response, but the owner throws a recorder at him, rather rude of him, and gives
his own answer. The woman reports that his answer was indeed correct and gives
his 300 rubles. Roland, the fat man, roars with laughter. Rejoicing and unhurt,
he walks out—the broken window made he rocketed through earlier.
I don't know if I'll continue this, but if I do you will find it here.
I don't know if I'll continue this, but if I do you will find it here.
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