The workers on the road, ragged and tattered, were just pouring concrete into the hole of astroblemous standards, when the man jumped over the hurdles, the crenelation of "road under construction" stuff and came to one of the workers, who obviously feeling awkward, said "Namaste, sir" but offered his hand to the man only after meticulously rubbing it in the woefully disheveled working suit.
Behind the crenelated walls of his nonchalant behavior (while pretending to be confidently smoking the calumet), stood a world where inner timidity and profound anguish were blended in a chemical swirl, an olio of tormented memories with an only occasional lingering taste of wallflower, the color of worn-out purple.
Inasmuch as the thimblerig Master was currently dead, his dog had a chance to prove its bona fides as his best boy, and it coped with the challange in a slick, far from arduous, degage, nonchalant manner, not even slightly impeded by the yelling crowd and only occasionally barking at them as an invitation to fucking calm down.
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