Cafe break or total wig out?

[And boy are his arms tired, having held them there for days whilst the two gladiators stand in their respective corner, unmoving, unloved and definitely unmitigated]

Well for God's sake! Whatcha gonna do?

[And so, the Rorschalk lets his arms drop to his sides and he walks to the bar where Otto stands motionless and somewhat fat to face his adversary. As he nears, the Rorschalk notices how the light reflects off Otto's stone face as if reflecting off a photograph on glossy paper and then, upon his arrival, knocks the big man over with sneeze...]

God bless you, sir.

[The Rorschalk steps back in horror as the once 3-dimensional simulacrum wafts to the floor of the Rump, pirouetting as it falls, revealing the corrugated brown backing that is the representative cardboard cutout which is now flat on the ground, almost invisible blending with the dulcet earth tone stone flooring. Doubly amazed, the Rorschalk wheels around to the bar and faces the good Santino...]

What ... did you speak?

[Santino spits out a sunflower seed casing and continues to polish his glass with a sodden bar rag, perhaps nodding imperceptibly in his fashion]

Nay! Can't be, or not be, eh? I am left here facing phantoms in an ethereal reality that percolates like twice baked grounds in the Mr. Coffee of haute illusion.

[Turning to the camera, the stricken Rorschalk pleads, almost whimpers...]

Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio?[