She said, “You bring the poon, we’ll bring the doom.”
She was always down for trouble.
Always in some kind of it.
The chimps on mics catch up with thoughts on 9/11, the fear of AI, the inconvenience of the TSA, and stuff they’re writing.
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By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.