Father figure
In a walk down sixth avenue, Kate asked for little horns. Last night Nate worked her hair into braids—two little horns to tuck behind the ears. I ajudicated try after try, and only after they integrated shards of burnt fingernail (perhaps it was the smell of melting keratin that did it) and dusted the finsihed product with Hookah ash did it look convincing.
We heard Jon Roche practice thundering in the night. Kate suspected the thunder was secretly happy. The bearded stranger in the night agreed. We knew he was from Texas, and would watch over us. He drank scotch and went asleep.
Elliot and Micheal felled the thundering with a shot to the crotch with a large wooden spoon.
While securing the windows at the texan-stranger’s insistance, at half-night, we caught a glimpe of Lucinda’s smile, marching down Bedford Avenue in the Viking.
