Carmarnacock

"Hello gentlemen"

A curious face peers through the first skin of haze surrounding Bob and Eugene. Placing her painted finger nails beside her chin she searches for the break in the haze, to peel it away, but it is illusive like the beginning of sellotape. She scrapes around a larger area and eventually feels her nail skip on the outer skin, and peels it back, ripping it down to her plimsolls and stepping through. Bob has been rebuilding his broken face, and using his stringy fingers to mop and plug at various pores. His face now propped up by the delicate stilts, his eyebrows being scooped onto his head by his forehead but constantly drooping like a sleeping bag a small man is trying to prod into a loft. Eugenes face does not need a transformation of any kind, it just pulses into a rosey whiskey whiskered pucker, with a tremendous monolithe teeth behind, only the middle of the top row of teeth are visible.

"Sandra, are you out on the rounds today?", Eugene fires like a dart of small talk
"Oh no, I'm round to see Mary", Sandra reacts, lets the chat dart pass her head, letting it be whipped round by her field of gravity, filling it with eye poison and carefully releasing it into the tradgectory of Bob's tradgic foreheadful smile.

"Mary is still on the continent", Bob yelps, raising a pathetic finger that looks like two Milkyways slumped in their wrapper, and rubbing the rickety bridge of his nose that couldn't even hold a pair of reading glasses.

"Oh right I see, it's just, I don't remember her saying anything about going to France"

The whole atmosphere changes completely, or it becomes more intense. If there was atmosphere before, it is now Ten Atmospheres of pressure. Bob's cheeks have sunk to rest in the divets of his collarbones, his nostrils closed like a camels in a sand storm. His chest has deflated as his bones have powderised and he is swaying in the breeze like a Lilo. Sandra's body responded to the atmospheric change by plumping up like a blowfish in a sea of cuppasoup, filling everything in Bob and Eugene's world. Eugene lies like a slimy stone beneath them. Suspicion nips Bob like anemones.

"She didn't want to cause a fuss, she didn't plan to do it, she just did it on a whim, but still she enjoyed herself too much. Enjoying France"

The whole sentence splipped out like oil from an octopus' anus, freudian in its slipperiness, and as similar as his possible motive for murdering her. Mary had been sleep-talking about Randy, and Randy's wife said he had been wet-dream-sleep-talking about Mary and she hadn't seen him for two weeks either. Bob assumed they had ran off together before Sandra brought up this atmosphere of suspicion against him. The prespiration haze around them reached saturation point and began to expire and converge. Whence it disappeared Bob was left there, pissing tears of angst down his knobbly knees. Eugene scuttled through the gap in the fence, and casually started swapping his scuttle for a gentlemanly swagger balanced by the metronome swing of his manhood. Sandra was gone.