And they are posting, the board floor slamming under the replies and the posters grinning hideously over their canted pieces.
Towering over them all is the coomer and he is naked dancing, his small feet lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the Bonbis, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant.
He never sleeps, he says. He says he’ll never die.
He bows to the simps and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the coomer.
He wafts his hat and the lunar dome of his skull passes palely under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the keyboards and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, dancing and posting at once.
His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die.
He cooms in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite.
He never sleeps, the coomer. He is posting, posting.
He says that he will never die.