I'm going to write a book.
It's a story about Lawrence, a prolific letter-writing gunslinger and atheist with sores on his feet, and the night he decides to go barefoot while eating at an Italian riverboat restaurant owned by Harold, a magician with scoliosis, who puts too much sauce on the spaghetti. I'll call it...
Epistolary "Pistol" Larry's Pastor-Wary Pustule-Airing at Posture-Worried "Presto!" Harry's Pesto-Heavy Pasta Ferry.