“I don't like sand.” John said, his fedora demurely shading his eyes. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere." A spark of adventure and need glimmered in his eyes, tears born of need flowed into his beard as he reached up and place his hand upon the cushion of Vox Day’s chest. “Not like here. Here everything is soft and smooth.”
Vox gasped. It was all he wanted to hear. All he had ever needed before he displaced his desires upon those long, hard plastic rockets.