They say:
“You don’t know know know what you’ve got until what you’ve got is gone.”
Miss Abbis Barnes is lipsyncing on her way, an obstacle course of children, goddamn lost and barely found children to lost but way lost parents.
Little polite elbow here and there as she is losing her temper upon hearing La banda de Latinas saying in rude Spanish swearing then apologizing politically correct:
“Puta perdida! mil disculpas, quien es la señora? Bienvenida a la mesa, a la fiesta de nuestro neuvo amigo, papa de azúcar, que se llama….
Como te llamas papa?”
Miss Abbis Barnes ignores the Spanish hustling and points almost as if Himler had pointed out to kill Minorities at the concentration camps, sorry extermination camps just some 80 years ago.
And grabbed him by his forest green shirt’s dash:
“if you come closer, I’ll come over, we’ll be diving in my warm water”
Or:
“You want to keep on sniffing dirty pussycats spending your late night wishes? With me.”
He stuffed the Campari bottle and chugged the whole damn thing as if it were the potion of youth right before death.
With his other somewhat free hand he snatched 4–5 cubes of eyes, and was chewing…
