Dark Secrets of the Livestock Pavilion.

Hey Sly, remembah dat time we wuz goin to da rodeo?

“The what?”

Da rodeo! You know, wit da cows an stuff.

“Max, we live in a gritty, grim, thinly veiled parody of some east coast metropolis, probably New York. Your accent, at its least ridiculous, is supposed to be brooklyn. We don’t have rodeos here.”

Oh. Den why…

“Why what?”

Den why wuz you carryin dat lasso around?

Very nearly a Givney flip. Yes, I know you don’t get that refference. I don’t care.

“What?”

Yeah, we wuz outside or something, and you had a lasso, and den Harry Ape ran by wit all his ill-gotten gains in does big ol bags wit da dollah signs.

“He did, did he?”

Yeah, dey always seem ta hafta put deir miney in dose bags. Why is dat?

“You’re asking me how your fantasy kingdom works?”

Sly, dis totally really happened! I wuz dere! I remember it all!

“That’s not really a convincing argument, given your track record.

See, you’d been drinking, and you were like ‘Hey lil buddy dere’s a steer I’ma rope it!’ and so you tossed the lasso and you got im right round da love handles an he dropped all his money an I caught him!

“I can’t believe I don’t remember something like that.”

I know!

“I was being sarcastic.”

Whatevah. Alls I know is dat Harry Ape was hella heavy.

“Shut up Max.”

I make a mental note to find where I hid that lasso and burn it. I can’t take any chances that he’ll stumble across it.

Everything that happened that day is going to the grave with me, I swear.

The Final Word.

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