“You are listening to kay-eff-at-sea,” said a smooth voice, exquisite oil on the slick flooring of an Louisiana oil rig covered in hydraulic fluid, flown by an unwilling John Madden at gunpoint by a madman.
“You can call me Mr. Esquire, your library of musical congress,” said The Voice, in the ears of his Throughbreds, his key demo, “in this Electric Cool Aid Rob Zombie song called life; after the Berlin Wall.”
1 to the 600. At the time.
“Errybody is [explective] in this UFO, and Rob Black, and Simon Bee, have perfected their aneroceter. She look fine. She look fine. She look fine, call me my, my, my.”
Dad. He looked up.
“and those two? They are closer to taking over the world than before, Chief.”
Jay, his Assistant Chief Engineer, at KMEL 106.5 FM opened his elaborate black, all leather trench-coat with a flourish.
“What are you selling! Hah-hah. Thank you!”
It doesn’t matter what came next, deadpan.
“One thousand dollars. Jay. In the year of our lord, nineteen eighty-seven.”
My father asking for a thousand bucks from his subordinate is a way more gangster way than you of saying “Scotty! I need something to murder mychildren.“