“Ken. You. Are. Killing. Me.” Dashing Ken, a.k.a. Billy Dee Williams Lite, pushed his glasses up his nose and asked, “Do the legs look even to you?” With an extravagant exhale, she smoothed her dress and crouched down next to him. “Almost there.” “Good,” he said, and continued to hammer away. “Sweetheart, I’m going to hear that banging in hell.” “You’re not going to hell,” Ken muttered, a screw jutting out from between his lips. “Oh please. I own real estate down there,”
