Lil’ dude in an orange T rocks out on his whistle. Same time, he’s up in the clouds. Got a buddy holding him tight, checking the scene. This old bird slinks by then, looking stressed to death. Got some junk on her head, all wrapped up in a kerchief. Real secret agent stuff.
Behind them, there’s a guy — odd-looking bastard. Got a scowl like a shovel. And screwy eyes gazing off the other way, like he’s too clever. Like he knows something we don’t.
But who knows. Maybe he doesn’t know squat. Maybe he’s stoned out of his tree. Or maybe he’s just a guy. Just another shovel-mouthed, screw-eyed traveler on the road of life.