Three of the four corners of the strip clipped at clean right angles, I rotated the sunday supplement and spread the scissors anew. Paused. Listening. Sam's wry eyes a little uncertain.
"Kid, I'm not one to gild lilies. Further you clip into this thing, the woolier reasoning is liable to get."
From deep in the metal throat and lungs of the house, faint chuckles, repeating. Heat register flaps chiming, gently resonant. The subliminal music of the family hearth. Imp giggles. Then: "Neki Hokey!"
"What?"
Elbows on the freed bottom frame of the panel in my hand, Sam sighed a cartoon balloon of smoke. Hanging his head, rubbing his neck. "Just what we needed. Comic relief."
"Neki Hokey!" Shrill with glee. Bouncing through the ventilation.
"What is that, Sam?"
"Fertheluvvamike...." Heaving a sigh like a sack of dry cement. "I thought we left those brats in the 50s!"
The haytangle haired twins tumble, a human wheel free down the sundappled hall adjacent to the kitchen, the pirate map tattooed across their soles flashing. "Neki Hokey!" The cackling tumblers reel across the checkered kitchen floor and through the breakfast nook, their wheel breaking on the threshold. The pair spill against the faux-edwardian walnut chairs and come to a bruised stop.
Massaging reddened shoulders, the comic relief critically eyeballing the leafy, dark, nubbled motifs of paw-paw's prize furniture. "Ugly!" "Dang!" "Smarts!" "Neki Hokey!"
"What the hell are they saying?"
In a snit of agitation Sam lunges, groping impotently from his pane for the blunt outer rim of the scissors. "Just finish, wouldja!?" The cigarette in his mouth switching corners with an audible click, sounding like nothing less than an automated turn signal in a 60s model Ford.
Hesitant scissor hand dropping. "Do I recognize these kids?"
"You shouldn't. But don't let me stop you..."
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