4 Moe

Jack adjusted his halter-top, pulling it from side to side, yanking it down. Then he stopped, dropped his hands to his sides and stood huffing and glaring into the mirror while the polyester/cotton/lycra blend of what was once his most roomy 80s showpiece gouged and pinched the soft bulge of flesh that appeared near his armpit. He squeezed his arms down straight; the pale pink blob grew.
It looked like he would be leaving the pogo stick at home today. He couldn’t take the risk of ripping the thinning fabric or dislodging any of the sequins. His appointment with Lord and Lady Feckinriche was in just over two hours, so he still had time to decide on another mode of transport. He wished the wealthy would just spend money on hair transplants so they could all avoid this mess of toupees and staples. Three pairs of pliers he’d ruined so far. Good ones. From Sears. The returns clerk was starting to eye him suspiciously.
He could take the scooter. No – the horn was broken. The last time he used it, it made a noise like a cow simultaneously burping and mooing a surprised “ooh-yeah.”
Unicycle? Absolutely not. Not until this so called “soothing, cooling relief,” that was advertised on the box had kicked in.
The stilts were also out of the question because he’d left them too long in the shed and they had succumbed to woodworm.
Hot air balloon it was. He only hoped Hasselhoff’s nose would unfurl properly this time. During the last flight the fabric around one nostril was pinched and it looked like the Bay Watch star was struggling to hold in a substantial booger.
Jack pulled on his high tops. He thought he heard the slightest rip coming from the seam of his hot-pants as he bent over. He stood up. Took a deep breath. Sucked in his stomach. And went outside.