Pool_1

SHARP - and we'll break you in," the chief stated his business while tapping his right index finger on his upheld left palm that alternately rubbed thumb and forefinger in a kind of 'time is money' preview. "We'll supply the uniform, but I do suggest you wear more conventional clothes to work," nodding to Marcus's skimpy pink Roman toga. The chief then added, "You are going to make a lot of money, kid. A whole lot of money. This is not easy work. If you're lazy, don't show, ..." a well thought pause, then the punctuation, "...and take a shower. You smell like a rat's ass." Marcus rebutted as he retreated into the night darkness, "The rats are dead!" with a mighty upward pointing finger like Raffaello's Plato attesting the divine realm to a more grounded Aristotle, "God killed them! Smote them!" The crew chief, holding his open hand out in a palm down gesture, shuddered, "Woah. Easy fella." Instructing his associate, "I think we've got a nut case, here," to be sure they check out this new kid carefully tomorrow before letting him have any keys. Meanwhile, the last of the departing words of the still upward gesturing Plato following, "I, Vomitus Fermenti, have decreed, ..." were lost to the start of the car. As it pulled away, the chief just groaned but also considered that the screwballs were the ones who sold the most ice cream. Marcus didn't look dangerous. But then, of those who are, who does?