The Wichman loafed. The Wichman moped. The Wichman lumbered about his bed like a plank of oak disregarded to the sea. The Wichman took his hands to his head in a spheral harmony, his body sang out thud thomp thud and his phone rattled the table where a record player bounced over Del Shannon's Hats off to Larry, The Wichman stumbling over a day-old tallboy sending rivulets of beer onto the rug and the last few drops into his mouth, The Wichman grabbed his phone to his dismay: I can cut your hair for you. No. No thought The Wichman who was of a species who didn't want just anyone adding to or taking away from his person unless by his command. The Belligerent Wichman, The Scrofulous Wichman flung his phone to a pile of laundry, opened the shades and let the sun detain him for a while.