Shmok

What a shmok I was to go to their cocktail hour and feed them new material for misrepresentations. “Excuse me, spiders,” was the gist of my visit, “I, your friend fly, have entered your parlor in error. I withdraw.”

“Got a name for me, Jack?” he asked, shoving the cup to the side. He lit a Chesterfield to chase the taste. / “’At I do, son, ’at I do.” Spark brushed cake crumbs from his belly. What a shmok, Mouse thought.

You’re a goniff and a shmok, but I love you like a brother. I wouldn’t do such a thing to you. You know that.

“Hey, something occurred to me about our chance meeting with our old school chums earlier.” / “Oh hey, don’t let that shmok get to you. He’s just-”