Slylock Hates Performance Art.

So, Sly, do ya tink dey comes in peace?!

“Max, I’m gonna give you a partial list of things I could be doing instead of taking you to this stupid art fest. Since when do you like art fests anyway?”

Since I became aware of da yoirning fer byooty dat swells in da heart of every man!

Tickets to Burning Dog are beyond Max's financial reach.

“I could be arbitrating between the crab and the gator that started that riot down on the waterfront, maybe trick one of them into confessing.”

Sly, dis attitude really isn’ helpin.

“I could be recording that stupid PSA the comish has been on my back about, about stupid pinkies taking a damn bath so those of us who can actually smell don’t need painkillers to stand near them.”

Dat’s not a sootable attitude fer minglin wit da artistic communities.

“Which should be an indication of my desire to be here. I could be having a nice afternoon in the park, watching children play amongst the flowers, except that the park is full of loud, annoying, pretentious hipsters!”

Sly, dey aint gonna be interested in comin in peace if you keep sayin tings like dat!

“Good.”

I’m going back to the office. Till Max’s once-a-decade intellectual fit wears off, he can walk home.

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