Lou

Please, Jesus, get him away from me? His breath smells like pickles, it’s making me woozy. Why is he talking to me like this, calling me “Lou,” wanting to feed me pizza—he doesn’t want to be friends, Lord, does he?

He probably doesn’t have any. How could he? He’s so fat and mean and jolly about it.

But maybe not.

Maybe down deep, under all that blubber...