126 Flyswatter full circle

“Eee hee hee hee hee hee! Oh my goodness me!” Another fanny pack, another treasure. Swami Skinrash wanted to hug himself. Instead, he hugged Granny Guss.
“It is fortuitous all your material needs have already been met,” he said cagily, in the bubbly, burbling accent which lured followers.
“Whattaya mean?”
“You have a large house in the lovely Alder Avenue neighborhood, and a beautiful Saab car is parked there, and a sturdy Oldsmobile, many family members to assist you . . . these trifles are quite unnecessary for a woman of such stature.”
Swami Skinrash would say anything to keep her from looking into the fanny packs as they lugged bodies to the dumpster.
“Have I espied some snoo high on top of your lovely robelike dress?” He made a show of examining the back of her shoulder.
“Huh?” She regarded him with the interest she showed invaders on her and little Drew’s two proprietary yards of carpet at home.
“Snoo. Perhaps I can brush it off for you . . .”
“Don’t touch me! What’s snoo?”
“Nothing much. What’s new with you?” He giggled affably and conscientiously. “Oh, a very popular joke in my homeland! It is a very funny thing, don’t you agree?”
“I ain’t no prop for your funnin’!” She fumed. How dare this griftin’ little guru!
She thought, “Speaking of props . . .” when she espied, while the bogus holy man expressed himself, the flyswatter. Baby Drew evidently forgot it when he was borne on civilian shoulders and ninja’s wings to Ross Valley.
The contents of the fanny packs wouldn’t be spirited away, after all.


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