Mr. Gus Wiznewski, in accouterments that could have well been fashioned by a gloomy Norman Rockwell, felt the slow, slurred rush of embarrassment for the first time in these last few days. Amidst his inner organs, within the torso a far cry from glabrous, amongst a plenitude of cellulose accrued from the reluctant "I've-got a-six-pack-it's-just-in-the-cooler" mentality in regard to his physique, and by dint of his daily intake of couple a' beers (in keeping with a staple diet of matter contrary to the recommendations of health professionals), he, mid-sentence, while verbally paraphrasing-though not in the manner of today's most enamored of sportscasters–the struggle which his neurons had waged, namely, to lay out the connection between himself and his cousin, his cousin's brother, or no, his cousin's lover who had once held residence in Soho, yes he, in a style like the early, puerile humor of Adam Sandler, farted dans une maniere gauche.

A shame, really, because he had finally instigated the gaze through two chief tendrils of smoke of Helen Mewissen, who, sitting to his left and adorned with jewels reminiscent of a gaudy Audrey Hepburn, felt she was suffering the bad taste of a malcrafted martini fashioned by an ill-practiced hand, her palate having been accustomed to the adroit mixes found in Boston's Langdon Street.

The aftermath of the mouthful of liquor was like inhaling him off a cold pillow.

Anyhow, having ever so slightly adjusted her sinews so that her frame might conform to a most pleasant stature for glancing at the man of louche look she thought, she, in an air quite possibly akin to the British royal six-fingered-second-of-six-wives lad (for whatever reason), let go betwixt lips so saurian the indiscreet verbal designation "Nmmnh."

Jack, though, knew this was all for show, a show all but leased out, he with these prisoners of liquid in pent up walls of glass, all made of a substance passing, though Gus' fragrance still lived sweet. He knew the true reality. He knew they constituted the unbreakable and sempiternal circle. He then visualized it, meditated on it, he could see it now. It went round like the felloe on a felon's first bike, used to carry out petty theft before the age of twelve. And, just like the sickest surrealism of God-knows-what, their faces appeared, complete with dark and unfathomable eyes, yes, children to be feared like alcoholic knives.

So whizzing and pasting and pooting through the day, it's Pat laughing Carol smiling why at Stanley eyeing Bobbie mocking Roger dancing wanting Susie sweating and sweating to her left Nick (and what's really sick) he's crying she's seething God-knows-what who's howling, and they all touch.

From the image of the children he (Jack) came back, and to a shape, yes. He then meditated on its form, felt it, the mysterious thumb-traced circle of a packaged condom waiting in his pocket.