Some hours later, Mr Roger Buggery, by this juncture no longer trouserless - tantum gaudiamus! - and being once again prostrated upon his nasty, dirty chaise longue in the middle of the sea of feminine underthings, re-read for the thousandth time his nasty, dirty little speech, all the while doing his utmost to ignore the spasms by which his shambles signified their protest at the indignity lately inflicted upon them by Ms. Amelia De'Ath with her bicycle pump. —
Mr Roger Buggery
Mr Roger Buggery derived, from this cheap and nasty exercise of his cheap and nasty narcissism, vey little solace; for the law of diminishing marginal utility worked its ineluctable and deadening anti-magic even, it seemed, upon the pride he took in his own Catiline denunciations. As the nasty dirty afternoon drained away to nasty dirty waste, Mr Roger Buggery found himself reassessing his folie de jeunesse, which rather tended to exacerbate his gripe. He gaped at all the veneering. It was all beige, in that nasty dirty little parlour. Beige. All of it. All the veneering and all the naugahyde leatherette. And all the tarnished polymer: beige. Nothing but beige. Beige and nasty —
Folie de jeunesse
Mr Helix Folt, when he eventually arrived, was not in an observant mood. Choosing a cheap little chair, the nastiness and dirtiness of which were perhaps not quite as intolerable as the nastiness and dirtiness of the two or three other cheap little chairs in that nasty dirty little room, he gaped rather more vacantly than was his wont at the nasty, cheap little magazine on the nasty, dirty little coffee table. Mr Roger Buggery, looking up from his unseemly prostration, caught his visitor’s look, and vey typically misapprehended it. —
Helix Folt
“Chill,” he said, just as nastily, “I have no time personally for the idle accumulation of consumer fetishes. She pays for her maidenly fripperies herself, you know, the young lady, I int no sugar-daddy, well maybe the odd petit bonbon to satisfy a passing fancy and that, udverwise I fink you’ll find my concerns run a little deeper than the production and consumption of Jew trash,” and, producing, from behind a nasty, dirty little cushion surfaced in tarnished polymer, a nasty dirty paperback edition of Das Kapital, added, vey nastily indeed, “peace.” —
Das Kapital
“Chill,” said Mr Roger Buggery nastily and, just as nastily, “Gamina Dročerpyatova-Buggery, meet Helix Folt”, and, vey nastily, “peace”. —
Gamina Dročerpyatova-Buggery
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