Here's the roundup. Eloi's shaved off his beard for no reason and doesn't like it. Someone else used statistics (I don't know how) to calculate that I was a musician, and due to my t-shirt, Marie now thinks I was once in a motorcycle gang in Chicago.
I'd love that! Infiltrating a gang of massive metallic men on glittering motorbikes. We'd ride around the Mid West on our awesome machines, growling into town with a swirl of dust and grease.
I'd give myself a nickname, like 'Spud' or 'The Piano Man' or something. Trade in the specs for some cool prescription sunglasses, slip into the old leather and ripped denim, scribble on a few tats with a Sharpie, and I'd be away.
My crew would all be like:
"You don't wanna mess with The Piano Man. He's real bad."
And I'd be:
"Mmmhm."
"You should'a seen what he did in Springfield. Them dudes were lucky to escape with their lives, man. And all it took was a bit of piano wire and a sustain pedal. Don't wind him up. Seriously, he goes... crazy."
And at that point I'd just nod slowly over the top of my Ray Bans and crack my knuckles deliberately.
"Can you actually ride a motorbike?" asked Marie, interrupting me from my day dreaming.
"Um... no," I said.
"Ah. Okay," she nodded.
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