Good Evening, Everybun!
Charlie towered over her dinner salad like a magnanimous, fearsome lioness. She decided to take a different tack with her hoomin. He seemed terribly mortified and not in a good way. "Why not let him play 'Agent Hoomin' and 'Mr. Spressos'?" she wondered.
The drippage from the leaky roof already dissolved what was left of her hoomin's brain. Those were the final drops. Pretty soon, there would be nothing left for the straight jacket to hold.
So the hoomin played with "Mr. Spressos." They dreamed of a cold and misty night in a park, with patches of ground fog rolling by. They talked and talked. "Mr. Spressos" kept on pretending to keep something up the sleeve of his black trench coat, never fully letting on what's on his mind. The hoomin worked on a little, Sculpey figurine of a surreal bunn. There was no more news or leaves on the trees, but only the mist passing through the shrubs on the other side of the walkway as it rolled under the jaundiced light of the street lamp. The post clock froze with hands up in the air.
Good night, and good luck.