Nothing is funny anymore. There is no symbolism. There is no veiled meaning. Everything is laid bare.
Little Mikey Nitrous held up four fingers. He stared at them in the cold winter air. He reached out with his other hand and grasped one of his fingers. With a deft twist he snapped it at the joint. It sounded like when his mother prepared chicken for frying. Intense pain raced up his arm to his brain, but he didn't say a thing.
He just looked at it, and smiled. He knew what it meant.
Do you ever do that?
Maybe there is a little symbolism left, after all.
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