Ghosts of the Gargles, Or, Run-On For the Masses

This man refusing to enunciate who sounds like someone’s missing marbles found by his mouth took a vote in which escape has hands-down won against rolling around a schizoid tongue by an everyone-but-one to one-against-which-one-won margin, stubs his toe on stakes in the ground and moves swiftly on from religious talk to an amputee’s hop, thus dealing a crippling blow to choked upon balls made of glass in so doing, shifting their hopes from tongue to a$s until no-one calls no-one else for help, assuming he’s dead as the Pope who still enjoys a game of quick marbles with only himself and ghosts of the gargles.