Tasis (ta’-sis): Sustaining the pronunciation of a word or phrase because of its pleasant sound. A figure apparent in delivery.
HER: Ohhh myyyy looooord! It’s you! It’s really you! How did you find us? Where have you been? We’ve moved three times since you went away. You never emailed. You never texted. You never tried to call. It’s not like we missed you that much, but your disappearance kept us in suspense. Little Timmy, who was six at the time, was hoping you were dead. You’ll have to ask him why. Although we wondered where you had gone we were mostly glad you were gone. Now, I suppose you want money, or need a place to hide from the police, or some other weirder thing.
HIM: Hey baby! Yeah, it’s me, Tony Trick. Remember how you used to call me Tony Baloney and I called you Hairy Mary? Well, those days are over—now you can call me Tony T-Bone! Given that you’re pointing a .45 at me, maybe I should call you Scary Mary. What the hell did I ever do to deserve a bullet in the brain? I left, that’s it.
HER: That’s enough dipshit. Not a word for 10 years! Timmy’s 16 and he doesn’t know you from Joe Bozo. We barely make ends meet. Timmy has a part-time job at the bakery where steals donuts and crumbcakes to help with food. I’ve been wearing these jeans for 7 years, and this blouse is 5 years old. Give me a break, shithead! Where have you been?
HIM: I can’t say where I’ve been, but I can tell you where I am. I have six female employees who need a place to entertain clients in the evening. I was wondering if . . .
BLAM!
HIM: Jeez—that’s my foot you crazy bitch—you shot it—you shot me in the foot! I’m bleeding all over the place! Dammit!
HER: That’s right scum face. It’s just what you needed. Timmy will cover your foot with a garbage bag and help you to your car. Just get out of here. One of your whores can clean you up and get you to an emergency room. If you tell anybody about this—about what I’ve done—be prepared to lose your balls. Also, rat me out and I’ll tell the police about your “disposal” business from back in the day. How many was it? Nine? Timmy, go ahead and help your dickweed father hobble out the door. Don’t let him fall down. He might hurt himself. Ha ha.
TIMMY: He’s gone Ma. But somehow he “fell” down the porch steps and hurt his knee pretty bad.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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