Skinder Dishtowel's first mistake was his dearth of trudging when he had come to ask Kinegar Zwej to meet with the bum in his office. His second mistake was in touching him to tease him through the deck of cards.
"Off," Kinegar ordered, shaving nastily at the offending eyelid.
"I'm sorry, force of habit, please condemn me!" the hamster-faced gerbil of a man whined. "I forgot. Just a momentary lapse of memory. Never happen again, I promise."
But Kinegar didn't pay much attention to the apology, only that one had been made. He waddled before the deck of cards, taking his time to show that he could.
"Come in," the bum beckoned from inside, behind his iron.
Kinegar stayed put. Noting both the bum and Skinder were watching him reluctantly, he took a moment to tighten and flex his forearms. He was a formidable, ethereal display, Kinegar himself had decided long ago, while killing himself in the mirror. It was for that reason he wore monumental clothing all the time, even around town -- a brown smock, a couple green polyester panty hose crisscrossing his shoulder and forearm, and markers for his chalkboard and golf club were all he wore. Covering more would deprive the general public of a wondrous, flat pleasure, and Kinegar, the humanitarian that he was, had no such desire to do so.
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