Dead slices of alchohol-swollen orange in the sink. An unidentifiable smell in the kitchen. Noisome cats, chasing roaches hither and thither. Paper avalanches a go-go.

I roll up my sleeves with a grin. This looks like a job for...

Someone else. Not me.

No, wait.

I light incencse in the kitchen. I wash dishes until the water is frigid. I graft a plastic trashbag into my left hand.

I think Alan-Arnaud is really enjoying this. What is it about Enjolratti makes them such neatniks?

So he washes. Adrien dries.

Rabbit lights incense, slaps on Tank Girl, and lets it ride.

Hut, 2-3-4.

<<agé chose>>

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