Slaptop went walking down the road. He didn't know why. Don't ask him why people call him Slaptop, because he don't know why. Many people know goddamn well his name is Jim, but they call him Slaptop like all the rest. Even the goddamn dogs'd rush their goddamn gates and shout slaptop! slaptop! slaptop! until he'd walked so far his scent went weak. These are things you can't help when you live in a city of cretins. Like goddamn bowls of jello jiggling and slurping out sounds like slaptop. Just when he happened to be walking by, you have to understand. Nobody ever says, "Gee, him," like slurred might be mistaken for saying Jim, the real name of him. They all just wave and say, "Hey Slaptop." He don't know why, the way why he is walking down the road is always a no guessing why.

Thing is, the fucking retard only ever wears this pair of canvas hightops so old the uppers have torn away from the soles, except around the toes. He's like wearing ankle-laceup flip-flops. It's unnatural. The shoes make a funny sound. What the fuck does he expect us to call him?

Gym? I'm really the only one who knows to make that joke, and that's too cheap for even me.