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Don't cast aspersions on my asparagus.
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Aiden's solace, however, was to be swiftly curtailed.

Not by an axe-wielding horror icon. Not by a crashing plane. No. By something far more insidious. Far more unwelcome. Far more liable to ruin one's appetite. Far from a welcome end to isolation, the arrival of Bradley Floyd was enough to drive even the most extroverted and sociable of people into a nostalgia for solitude.

Dumping his tray, packed to the brim with as much unhealthy crap as he could smuggle past the lunchlady's noises, onto the table, he sat down opposite Beaks. The near-ubiquitous human gesture, of asking 'is this seat taken?', did not even occur to Bradley. Dumping his own ass onto the seat, with as much grace and carefulness as he had given his tray, Bradley immediately tucked in, waiting until an egg was already half-stuffed between his lips before speaking.

"Hey," he said, syllables broken up by vexing chews and obnoxious gulps, "heya Jewnose." Yep. As if 'Beaks' wasn't an insulting enough nickname, Bradley decided to add in the 'edge' of casual anti-Semitic stereotyping. There was no vitriol or hostility in his tone. The idea someone would, quite justifiably, be offended by his comments didn't even occur to him. And he immediately swerved into seemingly sincere pleasantries. "How's the day been treatin' ya?"

Bradley Floyd was far less traumatic than a jet crashing.

But he was far more annoying.
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Sing A Song Of Sixpence · Memories from the Past