My Cardboard Balcony

A Kumquat in Corfu by Belinda Roddie A kumquat in Corfu is by no means relevant to a statesman from Chicago with a half-pint caught halfway down his throat and a jack card in his left pocket, but when he's bleeding a frothy beverage from both eyes, he can't help but imagine the blatant sweetness of the citrus marmalade his Grecian granny brought from Corfu. Better than the twist his ex-wife had on her martini glass when they first dropped hats below their knees and cupped smiles at each other. The sugar's a ten foot tall harlot on his tongue, and he can't wait to kiss it, dripping, foaming on his half-witted dopamine mind in the shade of the kumquat.

Beware the man with the red top hat and the white cigar, that billows out black and blue smoke that leaves odor suspended in sages and sickens the birds he has locked up in cages. He'll try to upend you and tell you old stories that aren't even his. He'll attempt to pour you a glass of champagne, but it's really propane, so don't drink it, unless you want to go up in flames.