(eight)
The crow roostered again. "Cock-a-doodle-die, motherfugger," Colin mumbled. But the crow cock-a-doodle-didn't-die, and by dawn, the roostering created a kind of weird dissonant symphony when mingled with the muffled sounds of a Hindu's morning prayers. The Hindus hate the Muslims.
"Maybe we should have a word," Colin said. "For when it's gone too far. Like, just a random word and then we'll know to back off." Standing there in his towel, Hassan looked up at the ceiling and finally said, "Roes rot." "Rooster." Colin agreed, anagramming in his head. Rooster was an anagrammatic jackpot. He found forty, of which he only really liked: "to err so."
In the Jesus, with Hassan driving down the exceedingly long driveway away from the Pink Mansion, Lindsey said, "Lindsey's sigh, boyfriend. It's always Lindsey's, boyfriend. Satan Hearse. Anyway, listen, just drop me off at the store."
"Colin, say 'dingleberries' in as many languages as you can." "Farid." Hassan was good at his job, no doubt—Colin felt a rush of affection toward him, as he only translated in Arabic. He actually knew it in seven other languages, including Spanish, Italian, German, French, Russian, Greek and Latin.