Pool_2

"peeved with God for being a poor conversationalist." Mr. Johnson brightened for a moment when shuffling noises of someone outside were heard. But his guest just relaxed even more so, sitting quietly impassive for about a minute before offering, "It's a mite untidy out there. It doesn't bother him, but it does me." Mr. B.J. didn't get to ask - him who - as a prodigious man-like aberration in improbable attire, cross leather laced heavy boots, a coarse flannel work shirt, high rolled sleeves, front buttoned only in the bottom half exposing a glimpse of an impossibly muscled chest, a big axe laden belt hanging heavily over a woolen kilt exposing calves like trees. Ducking and turning sideways to clear the doorway, he entered the room. His powerful head turned turret-like on his towering rippling body as his eyes paused on the host. With his elbows flexed, both of his hands were held away from his sides soppy with fresh blood meandering down his wrists and forearms.. "I think he needs to freshen up a bit. Where's your bathroom?" But Johnson was twitching with unintelligible nasal sounds as his only response. The giant took a step forward with a face that could crack stone and eyes that no man should ever behold. "Nyneh, inyh nyeh ihhh ihhgn," plus flailing gestures indicated the direction of the bathroom. Mr. Johnson was never again recomposed, but at least shaking in the direction of his guest once again now that the distant sound of running water was heard. Of course the growls emanating from that room could only come from a nether world. Chattering teeth highlighted a rhapsody of trepidation. In a decrescendo, the guest resumed his conversation. His logic was direct but seasoned. He reasoned that while God was a near mute, the devil, on the other hand could talk your pants off, often has actually. Old Scratch wouldn't miss a click to talk to