70 Fretting ere fornicating

The reverberation from a single killing blow at the web end of baby Drew’s flyswatter was so violent that the tops popped on all the water bottles tucked in fanny packs. They gushed over the Frisco Ninja, who maintained his dilapidated disguise as the Cal graduate student on, ahem, leave of absence.
The mature beauty observed the soaking made Frisco’s shirt skin-tight, and her for-fornication fretting with her luxuriant white hair became, in a sense, more agitated.
As if she had to have It. Now.
“Boss!” Frisco whispered. “Old broad closing in! Interfere!”
“Clamp down on your persona even more, Alain. Say something to make her waver just a bit. Help is on the way.” Ross Valley asked _____ _____ to check his calendar’s back pages for the phone number of the Sourpuss Ninja.
“Ah so!” He immediately reverted to the jejune patois with which he’d thinly regaled interlocutors willing and unwilling at the Plip Plop Coffe Shop, and rolled his wrist. From there, he scornfully examined his rolled up cuff, then the manner in which the sleeve wrinkled in the crook of his elbow, and how the cloth shamelessly clung to his bicep. From a baggy, slovenly – oh say it – unbathed and burdened appearance, suddenly the Frisco Ninja’s graduate student errant was sleek from the soaking.
He simpered, quietly, insolently, commandingly, “I shrink, therefore I am.”
He examined his sleeve again, as if it was of more interest than anything transpiring in the cafe.
“The cogito!” was uttered at the Patron of the Arts’ roundtable. “Kinda.”
“You know, sometimes I don’t know about you!” the white-haired one said reprovingly and very, very fondly.
“That’s a beautiful thing to say,” replied the Frisco Ninja, knocking her for even more of a loop. It was the way of failing graduate students to become opaque, once they were in the world without ivy. But into his cell phone, he implored his employer once more, but more wantonly: “Boss!” Alain de Tochigi, the Frisco Ninja, presumed that older women were hard of hearing.

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