FTEC, Friday (05/11)

[justhisblogger.livejournal.com]

John had already gotten acquainted with the day's insanity that morning. He wasn't fond of it, and he was hoping dearly no one would stop by the clinic this week, but he had to turn up. He'd already nearly lost his last job over falling asleep on it, and he hadn't been able to avoid that.

Still...

He left the nurses unbothered for once, and simply set his bag down on the counter. He was singing under his breath as he did so, pointless, minor things, nowhere near the chaos of that morning. "Davenports and kettle drums, and swallow tail coats, table cloths and patent leather shoes." Really - it seemed like the island's singing tended to the nonsensical. "Bathing suits and bowling balls, and clarinets and rings..."

Pointless things. He wasn't even sure it was a song. Couldn't figure out why. He set his laptop down on the desk. "And all this radio really needs is a fuse; a tinker, a tailor-- A soldier's things..."

"Oh."

And everything's a dollar in this box...

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