Click
They will never believe it was not their pen making that clicking sound. They hold onto their pens at all times. To ask for your pen back from one of them is to accuse, falsely. You ask again. You ask nicely, for the last time. Still, they won’t give you your pen back.
Clop
You borrowed the blinkers from the darling of second street. You did this in order to appreciate one color at a time. Overcrowding had made narrow stimulation impossible, scatterbraining and curbing in the choke. When the darling went nuts, clopping madly and stomping bystanders to death, you played dumb. What blinkers? Oh, these. Those are my blinkers. Nobody was fooled. You were publicly shamed for the lie. Now you were down a pen and branded a thief.
Cha-ching
Your request was simple. If they were to capitalize off your story, you felt you deserved a buck. But you were a goddam liar and a thief, as well as a pushover when it came to getting your pen back. Add being a greedy little snot to your list of social offenses. They were eating it up, clicking pens, their pens and your pen, and smashing cash registers against your face. You liked the clink the coins made upon impact; you could do without the clicking of the pens.
• David R. Cornejo: http://davidrcornejo.tumblr.com
• THWWTH: http://thwwth.bigcartel.com
More about: David R. Cornejo, Jaap Blonk
