Hardhands does not like
children. This dislike is nothing personal; he doesn't like chicken either, or
rainy days, or socks that were too tight. In fact, if asked to rank dislikes he
would have put these last three higher up on this list, easily. Maybe that was because chicken, rainy days and socks that were too tight
intrude into his life. Children do not. Still, his little experience with children,
confined mostly to his dreadful niece—four years old and a red headed terror—have
left him quite firm on the matter.
Hardhands does like dogs. He also likes sleeping late, double mochas and
scrambled eggs, particularly the way that Paimon makes them, creamy and cheesy,
and particularly on a late morning after a later night, after a particularly
good show. Last night's show had more than particularly good, it had been
fantastic, brilliant, fabulous, being superlative. The drums had rolled like
thunder through the crowded club, crushing all before them, and his voice had
balanced perfectly on the knife's edge of the guitar, cutting and quick. The
invocation had been so superlatively heavy that the band had managed to
manifest Forneaus, who had produced the most killer bass solo ever heard at the
Octagon Theatre. The show was so fabulous that half the audience had staggered
out into the early morning street with blood streaming from their ears, agog in
bliss.
Now, still in afterglow, Hardhands helps himself to more cheesy eggs out of the silver chafing dish. He is humming the bass line to Bury Me in Immortal Oblivion. If he had been asked what could ruin his perfectly good mood, he would have said, in between egg and coffee, absfuckinglutely nothing.
Now, still in afterglow, Hardhands helps himself to more cheesy eggs out of the silver chafing dish. He is humming the bass line to Bury Me in Immortal Oblivion. If he had been asked what could ruin his perfectly good mood, he would have said, in between egg and coffee, absfuckinglutely nothing.
That
was before his grandmamma joins him at the table.
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