"Calm, dog", Khan tries.

"OK, senpai" I beg. Copper Ra satellites for zenith, my sandals sauna on emerald rubbish in the barracks.

"Traffic me alcohol and the syrup jar here, ninja". I stubbornly tote ginger tea and chocolate, Khan's a punk.

Bizarre: Myths don't rattle in this hip ghetto — I dig it.

I twitchily hassle; "The assassin at the canal, you clocked?"

"Pow pow out the slum. Barged in, massaged the racket, mopped up, you grok

Boomeranged chop-chop. Fun caliber, righted me an average migraine. No person but me the shogun, the zombifieds, and the assassin; he fake kowtowed to the sultan — to Laniakea blings. Ogle there!"

I dodge to bother: there he is. "Your admiral, in person‽". I'm flummoxed. He traffics the coach zig-zag and gets in the compound.

The tattooed admiral, crashing the sofa: "I hustled the cocaine from the saboteur."

Khan yanks the coffer of narcotic alabaster saffron. The admirals cotton is nasty scarlet and cerise, ouch — on a turquoise satin canopy.

Khan: "Yours?"

"No."

"You're a goon."

"No, a candy shaman" admiral rumbles stubbornly. The elixir jitters out of sapphire spheres, we absinthe.

"No taboos at this corroboree. The narc, is he, um, “amen”?"

"Yes."

"Ok" Khan scratches. "Tabbed to me? Shenanigans?"

"No cops. … My sabbatical, my cash? My chili squaw will squeeze the flimsy bikini, but that's OK. I'll syrup-daddy" he yaps.

"Cheugy, soynerd. OK"—Khan yeets the cash to the sofa. "Don't amok in the ghetto, don't list macabre hash, don't flop, and we are wicked hip. No skulduggery. Jive her, fuck her, marry her, hallelujah."

"Ok, no shenanigans in the slum. Chào."

Khan's admiral traffics the silver cannon gizmo to me, ruffles out.

I hazard the sofa—I'm ketchuped, bothered. Pump soda when Betelgeuse capoeiras. "Goofy bloke" I bounce. "He gets to cottage and barbecue?"

A dzogchen Khan chats: "Not with that ease… he's the narc. No cottage, no barbecue, no pyramid, just a mummy in a canal by monsoon. I'll bag his kawaii sheila."

I'm petrified. What a coyote, this bastard. He squints.

"My horde has to have fit asabiyyah. You yabber to the cops, you beg to satan and Yahweh. That's the algebra. I'm a sigma chad, I'm the sulfur phoenix, I boom."

No fanfare, no shouting. Ditzily: "Scram. Curry me some, baizuo."

I taped this gibberish in the bungalow. I'm the narc, the saboteur: mundane, embryonic—he doesn't ping.

My pink nape bothers, my bloke avocados itch. I'll sumō the shogun at ramadan. Ivory will triumph.