Thomas awoke. Downstairs, thumping and banging announced the presence of strangers in his house. He dashed down the stairs and narrowly avoided singeing himself on a white dwarf star.
“Installin’ yer solar system,” grunted a rotund man with a hard hat and a clipboard. He spun at a loud crash from the next room. “Nichols! Careful with that! Don’t worry, mister, we’ll patch that up with some dark matter, no problem,” he said, turning back to Thomas.
“I didn’t order…”
The man scratched his head. “Ain’t this 674 Primrose? Well, shoot. Sure you don’t want one? They’re damn useful things.”
Vossler on Soaping and Writing
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