Erm….

Mr. Mouth’s Debatable Heritage

“Don’t be put off by my innate hotness, or Cuban-ness,” Mr. Mouth said. He dripped commas. It was unsightly and messy. The custodian, Gomez, would have to clean up later.

“You’re not Cuban,” said a recording. It came from a computer in an outhouse three miles away, piped in through a ragged sound system that had seen better days. “You’re from Snellville, Georgia.”

“I’m from Brooklyn, you hypocrite!” shrieked Mr. Mouth. “My parents are from Cuba. Therefore, I am Cuban!”

“#sadlittleman,” the recording said.

Meanwhile, a year ago, a jiggly cat named Sandra gave birth to an idea. It was wet and couldn’t walk, this idea, and it died before it could spread. Sandra shrugged and moved on.

In an ocean of memory, mermaids braided the hair of people who drowned. Mr. Mouth rejoiced he was not among them.

The recording stopped. Mr. Mouth took a tentative breath. More commas fell. Gomez chewed a breath mint, grabbed his broom, and walked in.