still bored, so let's tell a story one sentence at a time

Suddenly, Eddie felt fatigued of all the merriment, and also possibly of the mild aural brain-loss he had experienced only moments earlier.

The wildcat finished his Labatt and politely wished his Canadian friends a good evening; continued merriment was not his purpose, either.

Disgusted by the lack of either merriment or drugs, Kadeem Hardison soon left in a huff, while Randall Flagg, who had been waiting, doglike, through it all for Eddie's autograph now left, too, ecstatically clutched a wrinkled Labatt's label, upon the back of which was inscribed, "To my best arch-nemesis ever, respectfully..." followed by a scribble that might have been either 'Eddie Murphy' or else 'Richard Pryor'.

He tucked the label into the pages of a book he'd been reading, the second volume of a biography of Adolphus Busch.

"Looks like it's down to just you and me," Eddie said to James Redd, "What do you say to a couple of hands of cribbage before we turn in?"

The wind blew itself to pieces.

everyone in town that died weirdly came back to life as if they had never been dead, but they smelled REALLY bad.

Nobody remembered the rules of cribbage.

As a result, those who had been continuously alive and still had somewhat functional brains could easily convince the recently dead of whatever cribbage rules favored them, enabling them to win the shirts right off the backs of their rather moldy opponents, but these, too, smelled really bad and it didn't improve the looks of the undead, either.

It was an election year.

The rules for the election seemed to be as unsettled and doubtful as the rules for cribbage had become.

Eddie hated acting against styrofoam balls, but here he was again, in a makeup seat on a trailer, awaiting the next layer of latex.

Then, in spite of the odor of fresh latex assaulting his nose, he smelled something that cut past that baseline aroma with an acrid force that staggered him.

Fragrance is like luck:we all want it when we go on a date. Such was the case when the robotic cello appeared.

On another cello, the scents of linseed, beeswax, elemi, rosemary oil, garlic, and dichromate would have been too much.

Fart.

Chris Cornell would sing of days like this.

This was the thought that fleeted through the mind of Miroslav Danilovich, lead singer in a Soundgarden tribute band called Zvuková Záhrada, based in Slovakia but temporarily on tour in Sofia, Bulgaria, as he trudged through the streets searching for a place where he could buy a bottle of slivovitz.

Miroslav may not have looked like much, but he had it where it counts - in his huge fingernails.