and how that sort of means that cows do not exist as independent life-forms,
but that’s not really something you can say out loud, so you’re ultimately forced to choose between lying and seeming weird.
“Well, I want to date someone,” Daisy said. “I’d make a go at Little Orphan Billionaire myself, except he wouldn’t stop looking at you.
Hey, speaking of which, here’s a fascinating piece of trivia: Guess who gets Pickett’s billions if he dies?”
“Um, Davis and Noah?” “No,” Daisy said. “Guess again.” “The zoologist?” “No.”
“Just tell me.” “Guess.” “Fine. You.” “Alas, no, which is so unjust. I’m such a billionaire without the billions, Holmesy.
I have the soul of a private jet owner, and the life of a public transportation rider. It’s a real tragedy.
But no, not me. Not Davis. Not the zoologist. The tuatara.” “Wait, what?”
“The tua-fucking-tara, Holmesy. Malik told me it was a matter of public record and it totally is. Listen.”
She held up her phone. “Indianapolis Star article from last year.
‘Russell Pickett, the billionaire chairman and founder of Pickett Engineering,
shocked the black-tie audience at last night’s Indianapolis Prize by announcing that his entire estate would be left to his pet tuatara.
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