| erniemacmillan @ 2003-05-17 08:48:00 |
| Current mood: | NOT out on the roof |
I think Crabbe's looking to put a Harlem sunset out on Susan. He's gunning for her, and I don't know what the grift is but any wise head can see it. Well, I'll tell you what, I'm not about to sit here and watch Susan get zotzed, not me. That skid rogue isn't pulling a soup job on my joint, not Ernie Macmillan's. That palooka'll find himself getting the gate before he can say 'the racket's flopped.' I got a hunch he might just be a dummerer. I told Susan to lie dormy and take it on the heel and toe before he fills her with daylight and she finds herself in a wooden kimono, but the skirt thinks she's hitting on all eight. Sure, kid, and I'm Martin Miggs. Poor dame, it's always the ones who think everything's duck soup that get pigeoned by flimflams like Crabbe.
I might have to put the screws on Crabbe. He might be big but I ranked him at dinner last night and when I gave Justin the rumble we both figured he's a weak sister. He thinks Susan should take the scatter too, the guy's just worried about his moll, but she thought I was kicking the gong around. Sorry, kitten, hold onto your mum's marbles because the egg's no daisy. He'll chisel you and cheese it before you can see the sting. I'm talking the big sleep, the Broderick. We need a bruno of our own and I'm looking to the high pillow this time. I'm talking Professor Sprout, Professor Dumbledore. They're the meat in this game and I'm not playing for fun anymore.
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