Okay, just got back from Charleston…no trace of Mr. Bakst, but I did get a commemorative beer stein and a tattoo that I can’t understand. When I woke up in the sand trap of a Myrtle Beach golf course, it was just there. So what have I missed?
Mostly, it looks like Mia, really wants to see the peacock. I mean, really, show her the peacock already, Fowler. It’s the secret to shooting prowess.
Show her the peacock! Where is the peacock? Are you desperate for the peacock? How bad do you want to see the peacock? Hey is that Marsha Brady? Did something “suddenly come up”? Was it a peacock?
That’s okay, Fowler. It happens to the best of us. Just relax and don’t think about it too hard and the peacock will rear its head. (Hey, watch out for the Unitarian Universalist stop sign!)
Still no sighting? C’mon Fowler, do you need testosterone replacement therapy already?
Okay, now it’s just ridiculous.
Ease up, Fowler. You’re likely to be mistaken for that psychotic guy from the continually recycled crowd panel.
Mia’s a beast. She craves the peacock and now she’s a shooting machine. This is a fun plot. I’m looking forward to blogging about this on a more regular irregular basis.