Silence but for the sounds of liquid guts and bus wheels on white sand.
"Is it this brochure?"
Someone had cut out and pasted a DVD artwork to the front, Trading Places.
"Anywho, as if we weren't thrilled our socks off enough by a gigantic
"Size of Babylon
"Oasis in the desert of so-called Arizona,"
"Read the script." A Korean body guard poked a finger almost through a sweater pocket at disobeying.
"The Cultural Center of cultural centers. The Shaquiel O'Neil of hosts," the reader speaking into the walkie talkie blaring the information out the top of the bus tried to make enough spit to keep talking, "Welcomes you."
"Wait. You're going with us, right, Ellen?"
"Who's Ellen?"
A person at the back of the tour bus frantically rubbed and rubbed sweat-dripping fingers against Hydrating Space Foodstuffs. "Use this," an older Greek tourist person handed a pocketknife, about two inches long, across the aisle. People-looking-people started to rise from the backseats. "It's a kah-nife!" One spoke without moving its mouth. "Stop the bus. It's my stop." The other's "voice" was so loud it hurt eardrums.
The bus stopped.
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