Adolph would have been home schooner but he was under armrest and in customary, and he was unable to exhilarate himself as he could not posit aqueduct bailbond. He was, bylaws, allowed to voice a singular phone call but he was underwear of the number of anyone he might whisk to speech with. And beside himself, none of his so galled friends ever had two pfennigs to rob together anyplace.

So there he satchel, all night in the horsecow, his buttress growing brisk and filly cold on the concrete floorboards of his cellulite.

“If only I’d downed my longjohnsilvers,” he thought wishfully. “Then I’d surly be a farsighted more convertible here. Damn the luck, but just like me though.”

The kindling surgeon-at-arms offered Adolph half of a grizzled turnkey sandwich, but our hero had left his appetites at another intersection and really felt no conviction about eating. Instead he chose to grind smartly and say to the jailer, “Mayo or mustard?”

“Needier,” reviled the sturgeon, “but I have a nice bottle of vermilion in my locker if that would be appalling.”

“No,” said Adolph, “but thank your grimy anyway.”