95 Bulletproof chuckles

The Frisco Ninja approached Monsignor Quinn and said,
“Please to pluck twanger.”
The religious complied.
Boingggg-yinggg-yinggg-yinggg! The Jew’s harp reverberated around the Plip Plop Coffe Shop walls, and it was suggested if not delineated in Mikkim Ttommott’s homage to the “Battle of Anghiari.”
“Awh awh awh awh awh! Awh awh awh awh awh!” Swoosh in a white cloud of vapor! “Awh awh awh awh awh!” Final bulletproof chuckles as the Froggy Ninja vanished.
It can be imagined, however, that on the jolly way to his special place beyond, he reiterated in utmost sincerity, “Baby Drew’s a good boy, he is, he is. Awh awh awh awh awh!”
“Froggy!” yelped the Monsignor, as if he were running after his own heart.
The white-haired beauty’s voice caught, just an eighth note’s worth, but it wasn’t from being overcome by the Patron of the Arts’ roundtable chipping in with plaintive harmonies as the Strollin’ Bluegrass Band struck “In The Pines.” Froggy had been part of her blemish-free youth, too, although his charisma had been slightly frightening. She’d always watched for Squeaky the Mouse instead, and cheered for him in his race car well before she’d cheered on other males in her life. The rest of the Boomers in the cafe still couldn’t believe Froggy had actually arrived – at this point in their life, they felt it was too good to be true – and now they didn’t want to believe he left.
Frisco returned to his table, sat down petulantly to maintain his spoiled leave-of-absence disguise, and with the entire composition of the cafe, exclusive of ninjas, still fixed in their belief that he was a sad, annoying case, he vibed instructions to the Good Hustle Ninja while he stirred the coffee that his mature seducer left on the table.
In his own effective disguise as Huancho de la Vega, Good Hustle deputized all his Little League teammates and the little girls and boys who’d cheered at the championship game.
“I can’ esplain now, but choo gotta help me hout, maee’.”
Because of the miracle play at third base, he’d effectively become the team leader. Each and every kid listened.
“Tha’ frog leff behin’ some dust. Don’ be a-scare’, maee’, youuu gonna like whaa it doze. Youuu gonna fly.”
They believed him – for who would have believed the out he’d made against San Rafael was possible? – and they jumped up and down. Their fingers twiddled and their mouths took shape like O’s in “hope.” They hoped they would indeed fly!
“Yay!” they agreed.
“An’ youuu gonna help baby Drew. In my country . . .” He’d repeated that phrase so many times it sounded as uttered by one raised on the ideal upper middle class amalgam of Yolanda Drive and Alder Avenue. “. . . we ‘elp heach hother hout.”
They were eager.
“Yay!” with shouts and jumps again.
They didn’t know what it was called, but when baby Drew did The Madison they thought it was cool. Besides, they’d walked and run from Memorial Park to downtown, because they themselves were too cool to ride bicycles.
Interpolate previous information, and a San Anselmo-style syllogism ensues.


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