Saturday night, again. Why do these things always happen on Saturday night? Anyway, the page comes over the loudspeakers, overhead, for all to hear.
"Assistance to the front of the store." The voice is querulous with an undertone of hysteria. "Assistance to the stairs. Oh, help."
Everybody comes running, to find Superman--known in the vernacular as dumbass--lying in a pool of his own blood at the food of the stairs. Yeah, he thought it would be fun to fling his 6 foot plus frame from the 7th stair. His head felt differently though, after he smacked it against the soffit, hard enough to rip part of his scalp off.
But he's so pickled he doesn't even know what happened.
Why ever do you suppose he came into the bookstore tonight?
What I'm reading now: The Visiting Professor, by Robert Littell
1 month ago