Mr. Marrowsuck lifted his hand high over all creation and made the Sign of the Jimmy with a pale, trembling hand. It was such a rude and forceful gesture that many (including the lip-wiggler) were offended and turned away or averted their eyes. The lip-wiggler even tried ducking his head in the sand, but as there was no sand to be had in the sterile, stainless steel environment, he quietly tucked his head under his own arm and wrapped it with a moist grey flannel. Those moist flannels are good for the gout, for demonic possession, and for cockroach infestations. Sometimes it is hard to tell which is which, but luckily the treatment is similar.
And Mr. Marrowsuck pronounced the words we all longed to hear – the words we knew were coming and the words that the lip-wiggler knew would set him free. The words dropped out of his mouth like a chain of golden nuggets and landed with equal weight upon all the assembled nations of the world. The words fell on the lip-wiggler and caused his antennae to shiver with the anticipation of freedom. Up and down the lip-wiggler moved...up and down, in and out of his own skin, exuding a white, creamy protein from his cloaca and making a general mess on the clean stainless steel floor. The lip-wiggler blushed with shame.
After Mr. Marrowsuck had thus spoken, he turned to face the adoring crowds – crowds that were strangely absent here in this sterile, stainless steel environment (for this solitary confinement was purely for the benefit of Mr. Marrowsuck and the lip-wiggler and there was not another soul around for miles. Perhaps hundreds of miles). A woman's voice called out the most sweet and tender words in Spanish and it was as though an endless series of gongs had sounded. “Carrera, carrera, carrera!” called the woman's voice.
Mr. Marrowsuck let a little, tiny tear roll down his cheek. “Carrera, carrera, carrera,” he called back.
“Carrera, carrera, carrera,” called the lip-wiggler, cleaning up the last smears of the white, creamy protein.
In three-part harmony the three of them sang these words to a plaintive tune. “Carrera, carrera, carrera,” sounded through the sterile, stainless steel environment. Words so sweet and a tune so moving that even the lip-wiggler felt a tiny tear come to his eye. Mr. Marrowsuck lifted the 11 ½ 3E wingtip that was attached to the end of his leg (his foot still encased within its leather confines) and brought it down on the lip-wiggler's head, crushing his bony little skull and killing him instantly. Mr. Marrowsuck inspected the smear of creamy white protein on the bottom of his shoe and then scraped it off as best he could, scraping and scraping at the stainless steel floor.
“Carrera, carrera, carrera,” called the woman's voice.
“Carrera, carrera, carrera,” called back Mr. Marrowsuck. He lifted his hand high over all creation and made the Sign of the Jimmy.
“Carrera, carrera, carrera.”