“Our time is up Dog,”

“Our time is up Dog,” I said to my customer disguised as a Cambodian shrapnel bomb of ill-angled words and sputtering electronic bleeps named Boo. He reckons he uses me as his confessional or tour guide. Boo’s first single "Dicksweat" comes out in March.
Boo exclaimed, "Hey Mister C, guard your grill and take a chill pill.”
Boo bumped knuckles and I stepped on to the platform. It was like entering through a portal into nothingness. It was called Huntingdale.
Next thing I knew I was eating at sub-continental cafe with a nun. “So how can I be of help Sister?”
“No in fact, quite the opposite sinner. How can I help you? Your face looks like hell and I can tell you’re a crotchety old man whose carnal appetites have shrunk to zero.”
Looks like nothing romantic this afternoon. Bummer. I needed time to think. I played games with the soy bottle on the laminex table to gain some leverage. A yellow banner with a slogan like ALL YOU CAN EAT; No Sharing Plates. Was plastered behind the counter.
I lightly stroked her cheek: “Why don’t we talk about this next week?”
The sister adjusted her habit and whistled a Latin alternative version of the Beatles ‘Eight Days A Week’.
I bought a newspaper and sat down at the table: “Listen Sister, last I heard you were dead and hiding out in New Zealand and working as a turntabalist in a bar where you made top-shelf Brazilian pastries and empanadas’.”