The Lexus, sleek and shimmering in the darkness, inched majestically along Stokes Croft. Momentarily arrested by the lucorum mutandum junctioning Ashley Road, it took its sussurant repose upon the camber opposite the steaming windows of Bar Wanque, whereupon Sir Hearty Luncheon’s gaze chanced to settle upon certain vey desolate personages smoking angrily on the pavement. —
Lexus, Bar Wanque, Sir Hearty Luncheon
“What a thing is a man,” he murmured, vey faintly, “Australopithecine, one supposes. Positively exuding cant,” adding mechanically, but also somehow wistfully, “I never did bear the cant.” —
Cant
Sir Hearty leant back into the bosoming naugahyde plush, whence emanated in response a sigh of ineffable bliss. For an interval, the North Somerset David de Rothschild digested this new intelligence. Beside him, Sir Gerald Inhali masticated with studied unconcern a slim volume of postmetatheory. —
Sir Gerald Inhali
“Cant successfully avoided then,” murmured at length that other garter snake Sir Ezra Tertiary-Syphilis from the bucket seat opposite. —
Sir Ezra Tertiary-Syphilis
Tandem mutavunt luces. The Lexus nosed forwards into Cheltenham Road. As it purred past … er … Squattocrat Heights and swept left up Cotham Hill, Sir Hearty Luncheon found that his thoughts turned from the unbearable cant of titled bohemians, and dwelt more upon the continuing indisposition of Lord Handjob, whom they were presently visiting in a vey discreet sanatorium in Westbury-on-Trym. —
Lord Handjob
A stolid and … er … squat presence by the steaming windows of Bar Wanque: Sergeant Drew of the Unauthorised Enema Squad. He, hawking up with consummate inelegance several chunks of his lung’s slime, spat these upon his anorak’s cuff, the latter being anon and singularly maladroitly transferred to the off-side cheek of his trouser seat. —
Sergeant Drew
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