The zoologist whistles in the launderette while his pants thump repeatedly and rhythmically in the rickety dryer. The dryer vibrates with the intensity of a hundred angry vibrators as if it was about to collapse from years of abuse and neglect. Much like a middle-aged housewife’s moist vibrator that lives in the dark and desolate crevices of her panty drawer only to get a short respite in the light and fresh air before being plunged into yet another dark, dank, and desolate crevice.

He hazily recalls how the day before yesterday the bats escaped from their safe shelter and chased a troop of girl scouts through the reptile house. Normally he isn’t inclined to reminisce about trivialities from his dull work life, but the look of panic and terror on that Girl Scout as she ran into and then through the glass display will be immortalized in his mind forever. If he would have known back in prekindergarten that his life would be a perpetual sideshow of bats feasting upon the innocence of girl scouts, he would have just ended it then.

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