Hot Zinc

I used to know a man whose name, unusually, was Hot Zinc. His character was equally rum. He muttered much in Dutch, while twisting twigs into dollies. Angular and emaciated, they were frightening dollies, quite unsuitable for the tiny tots who form the standard dolly demographic.

The airbag in his car was of a wholly new type. It was devised by his cousin. He had dozens of cousins, and the name of the airbag designer was Ulf Drib, which is an anagram of bird flu. Ulf was a fat fellow who looked as if several of his airbags had exploded within him. In May 1968 he threw a pebble at a policeman in Paris. Youthful folly! Now he was fat and comfortable and bourgeois and able to manipulate air in wondrous ways.

It was good thing he did, for Hot Zinc was a terrible driver. He ploughed into a gaggle of swans beside a canal. The prototype new airbag saved his life. The swans’, not.

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