The Priest Clearly had a weapon, the Marachi’s song hauntingly suggested

When I walked back from the city I was pissed all 52 miles.

“Live-well! Live-well,” I chattered, arriving, “live-well! I took a train.”

There I met a man. Younger than me, but not by much, and dressed modestly. He carried a single book. He asked if I had read it.

I chewed my sandwich. Wide eyed.

He told me he was from the island of Sicily, the old country. And that he was looking for a man here. A wealthy one, purportedly from the same place, once. I replied I had not.

He wished me well, as we parted.
I found an acoustic instrument lying there, abandoned in the hands of a vagrant, and began playing.

My phone rang.

“Elbonia, I’ve seen something,” said the asset in place, “anything unworthy. It’s money! I should tell her. From here.”

“Get. Your ass. Back. To. Virginia.”

“I should sell insurance,” he pleaded in a moaning panic, “to my indentured pleasure mates.”
Suddenly, I was hip-thrown. First, into an historical water trough. Then into the dead water; on the edge of the city.

“Well, fine! I’ll just float here. You better power up your engines! This wake is bouncy. Kinda nice, I’ll take a nap! Ohh hello, Water Moccasin. I happen to have some moccasins myself, at home! Ow, ow! Ouch, shit!”

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