[What the hell is happening in the last two episodes, Solon? Is it science fiction? I shall soldier on, but in some confusion.]
Mex leaned over Muffy's glistening nude form. She had curled up comfortably into a charming fetal position, and was now asleep, he judged, a judgment based on his interpretation of the deep breathing sounds, or, more accurately, loud snores, emanating from Muffy's nasal passages. (Muffy, childlike, had the gift of being able to relax comfortably and sleep deeply under almost any circumstance. In her wretched life, it had oft brought her solace.)
"Muffy, darling," Mex, a twinkle in his eye, whispered in perfect English with just a hint, perhaps, of an elegant Japanese and/or Hispanic accent, the striking New York accent of the previous episode having been an affectation he adopted purely for the purpose of intimidating the rudely staring aliens. "Muffy, wake up! It is a great stroke of luck that I have found you again, and I don't want to lose you now, and if you don't attire yourself soon, who knows what will happen to you in this unruly crowd, dearest one?"
At this, Mex, his eye twinkling ever brighter, swept the still-loudly-snoring, naked nymphet up in his brawny arms and loped across the square. His destination was marked by a painted sign. It said "Motel Six," he believed, though the paint forming the middle letter of the second word had many summers ago been bleached past recognition by the scorching sun. |
