Avant garde, no?

Fleetwood stared into the eyes of the voluptuous blonde (actually, let's make her a brunette) and when I say he stared into her eyes, he wasn't staring into her eyes. He was staring into her breasts.

"Sugartits," he said sensitively, "I don't know how to tell you this, but your husband is dead. Long dead. He's a fetid, rotted corpse. Worms have literally consumed his flesh and internal organs. Rags of dirty white sequin-studded satin cover his picked-clean skeleton."

"I thought he was" she sobbed, her ample chest heaving with the weight of the upcoming exposition, "But then I saw him! Alive! I was aghast! I looked into his eyes and he looked into mine and he recognised me and he ran away, but I ran after him using killer pins which I honed through a decade of athletic ice-skating and I saw him go into a building."

"When did this happen, sugarass?" Fleetwood enquired.

"About five minutes ago," she replied. "Also, it was the building next door."

"I'm not sure," sayethed Fleetwood, stroking his revolver, "I was planning on killing myself today."

"All expenses paid," she said.


(oh, definitely)

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