Foston Slacks - Time's Flies

24

They exited from the door laughing so loudly that everyone in the area turned around to see just what, exactly, was so funny that could cause someone to laugh so much they would expect pee to trickle down legs. There was no pee. There was, however, two people dressed for a beach party emerging from the door.

Foston, wearing a fetching pair of Bermuda shorts, Italian leather sandals (though where he found the sandals, Clara still did not know), a Hawaiian shirt so loud and colourful that several people shielded their eyes, while several more vomited into the gutter of the road, and the single most stylish pair of sunglasses that anyone had ever worn. Ever. Over his arm, he carried his impeccable three piece suit and his Italian shoes in the hand.

Clara, walking arm-in-arm with Foston, was almost equally as vomit inducing. A bright, day-glo pink sarong, accompanied a fiercely colourful swimsuit and a bright yellow, thin cotton blouse tied at the waist. Her hand bag bulged with her other clothes, folded tightly within, her sneakers, tied by the laces, hung from the strap of the handbag, tapping her leg as she walked. A large, wide brimmed floppy hat sat upon her head and she wore sunglasses that had far too many colourful spikes and horns and glitter upon them. On her feet, she wore the most exquisite pair of open-toed, strappy heels and, under her arm, she carried a Spanish toy donkey.

"That!" She hooked a thumb back through the door. "Was the most fun three months of my life! My entire life! All of it! Oh, my god! That's probably the saddest thing I've ever said."

"And, strangely, I believe you. On all counts." They both turned back, looking through the door as it smoothly, silently closed automatically. They both sighed. "Of course, it got a bit hairy when those sentient, bipedal alligators tried to steal Donkey-Oh-Tea! But you soon sorted that out."

"Nobody messes with Donkey-Oh-Tea!"

"Nobody!" They both said at the same time, laughing into each others faces. Foston continued. "And right at the beginning, almost dying of thirst in that immense desert. Well! If it wasn't for that wandering clown troupe, I shudder to think what could have happened."

"You know, for murder clowns, they were alright." Clara wondered where she'd put the bottle of Tequila, then remembered she'd used it to distract the gorgeous, but sexually useless, Mer-men. "Once you learn to sleep with a knife under your pillow, attempted murder isn't so bad. Do you think Coco O'Killo will ever get used to not having a nose?"

"He shouldn't have put his face so close to your mouth." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "You still haven't said whether you swallowed it or not."

"And I never will." She gave him a solemn look, at which point they both began laughing again. "Oh, Foston! I never thought I'd say this, but I don't hate you."

"And I don't hate you, either." He bumped her, lightly, with his shoulder. "It almost seems a shame to get back to real life. You know, we never did explore the Hallowed Halls of Hoot Oot A Toot. They say there are bunkbeds in there, so high and so comfortable, that you couldn't feel a pea under the mattress."

"Yeah, 'cos a mattress would squash the pea. Duh!" She rolled her eyes. "No one has ever noticed the Hand Of God under my mattress, and that takes double-D size batteries! I considered getting the mains version, but I'd probably never have left my bedroom."

They walked down the corridor, ignoring all the stares, knowing full well that they were talking far too loud. If this had been a street in England, they might even have heard a couple of 'tuts'. Maybe the odd 'Brazen hussy' from old ladies all wearing the same hairstyle. As it was, the residents of The Corridor only seemed to shuffle as far away from them as possible. Some even climbed upon other people's shoulders to get away from them.