“It doesn’t say anything, it’s just a picture of a two-headed monkey,” I reply.
“So, that Peter Gabriel song, “Shock The Monkey”, what’s that all about?”
“Uh, I don’t know. I haven’t listened to it for a long time,” I answer.
“That’s a pretty weird song. You know that other song by him, (I don’t hear what he says, I’m not listening). That’s a pretty good song too.”
“It’s a pretty bad economy right now, I mean everybody’s having a hard time. We’re all having it rough,” he adds.
“Yep,” I answer, somewhat confused.
Everyone looked around, nervous. Some people stared at me, expecting me to stare back and share in their apparent sense of incredulity. I couldn’t.
All this talk reminded me that I needed to trim my fingernails, because you know how it is when you type often and your fingernails start to get too long. Predictably, I didn’t have my fingernail clippers on me when I really needed them. I thought, well, I could ask someone to borrow theirs, but then, they might find me disingenuous.
“It’s a remote radiophonic transmitter,” he told me.
“What does it do?”
“You can broadcast your voice in whichever direction you point it in, and make people think they are going crazy!”
“Perfect!” I cried. Already we were ready to drive our enemies insane, by whispering weird things at them from far away.
She accused me: “They’re never going to live if you keep treating them like this.”
“But I’ve never even seen them before,” I told her. She just glared at me, as if expecting me to apologize.
Then, we went into this old bar in the center of the ghost town. That’s when I realized that the blood on my finger actually was mustard. It’s moments like these that make us realize how small we really are.