Elenor Rigbee City

There was knocking on Caroline’s door, a more aggressive knocking then she was accustomed to.  “Come in,” Caroline said. 

“Hey,” said an average build girl, her hair was wire straight, the bottom half of which was pitch black, but the top five or six inches of her hair revealed her ginger roots.  Caroline couldn’t help but relate the effect of which to that of fire turning to ash.

“Oh!  Hi Robin,” said Caroline immediately jumping up and running her fingers through her own hair.

“No need to get all spiffed up on my account,” said Robin dropping her shoulder bag, then dropping herself onto Caroline’s bed.

“No, I was just… not expecting company.”

“I can barely count as company,” said Robin her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Caroline sat cross-legged beside her, “What’s up?”

“Water damage evidently.”  Said Robin observing the grey veins of mildew on Caroline’s ceiling.

“Very funny.”

“Not really,” said Robin, “I’m not on my game today.”

“Why?”

“Well my dad gave me the day off school, and then inexplicably drove me out here.  My dad, the spokes boy for education, consistency and all things appropriate.”

“Yeah my dad gave me the day off too.”

“Ahuh, Caroline I think that are father’s have organized a play date for us.”

“Oh, I suppose that was kind of them.”

“I don’t think, I will ever understand you,” said Robin incredulously, propping herself up by her elbows to better examine her character foil. 

“I’m not really all that complicated?”

“No, you are a genuinely mult-dimentional individual, quite possibly the only one I know.”

“Not your boyfriend?”

“Not my boyfriend.  My best-friend.  I mean we hook up sometimes, but he’s gay, and has a boyfriend.”

“Yet you think I’m complicated.”

“Its not complicated.  If you really think about it, and stop polluting its simplicity with your archaic notion of propriety.”

“I would apologize but the last time I apologized to you, it didn’t go well.”

“You speak the apologetic language far t0o fluently.  Only apologize to me if you really mean it, I’m not the Pope; I won’t absolve you just because you repent.”

“I don’t know.  I don’t really have a problem with calming someone’s discontent, even at my own discomfort,” said Caroline sheepishly.

“You are far too compliant, I need to corrupt you a bit, get you a boy, or do you already have one?” asked Robin suggestively.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I saw you with someone the other day.”

“What?”

“You know, Mr. Tall Dark crack hound, last Thursday.”

“That was my dealer...  Hey that was your dealer!”

“He doesn’t cozy up to me like that.”

“Gross Robin, he’s trying to induct me into his prostitute ring.”

“Last time we spoke you sounded pretty amenable to that.”

“Well… where its safe, with my ante, not with some pedophilic junkie.”

“And you call my sex life complicated.  So explain to me how you rationalize celibacy in your life then consider a profession of prostitution.”

“I just need money Robin, you know, for stuff.  And I mean I think that business is kind of part of me.”

“How so?”

“Well I mean without it, I wouldn’t have been born.”

“I didn’t know that.  You don’t really talk about your mother.”

“Yeah that’s probably cause I don’t remember her, she died less then a year after she delivered me.  Antie Josephine took me then.”

“She does have that maternal quality.”

“Yeah its sad she never had her own kids.”

“Well she pretty much raised her share of children, she just happened to be one at the time.”

“Yeah, Benjamin never talks about his biological parents either.”

“There’s a lot we don’t talk about in this family…  Anyway I have a pack for you, I don’t need this much and I thought you’d be Jonesing.”  Robin went to her bag and brought a small paper package.

“No, I can’t take that from you!  Let me at least pay you for it.”

“Nah it’s a gift.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“Well, how about I sell it to you for a secret?”

“What kind of secret.”

“Just something personal.”

“Well, I mean… This whole drug thing isn’t an act of teenage rebellion, I was born addicted to--” Caroline started, only to be interrupted, “no not that kind of secret --also I already know that.  I mean not something that happened, something about yourself that you don’t tell anyone.”

“…Ok, but you can never say anything to Alder, cause he’ll just drop hints until Ant Josephine figures it out, then she’ll tell Benjamin.”

“I honestly doubt that if my dad and I ever do have a conversation, that it will be about you, but I promise anyway.”

Caroline considered for a moment, somewhat confused as to why she was so intent on exposing herself like this.  She considered her most intimate thought, one she hadn’t even fully explored herself, a personal taboo.  “… sometimes I think, I’m going to die in the streets… dissolve back to from whence I came.”

“Oh sweet oblivion,” smiled Robin to herself.

“Do you ever catch yourself passively trying to make that happen?” asked Caroline.

“I don’t really think I’m alive enough to die, or for that death to matter.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, none of my friends are happy living this life, and I listen and relate to an extent.  But I don’t really care either way, because I’m not living,” Robin continued to trace the blemishes of time on Caroline’s ceiling.  She considered elaborating, but ultimately, whispered to the ceiling instead.

“I still don’t understand.”

“Well, to put it into terms your familiar with, Shakespeare said ‘All the worlds a stage.’  And he was right.  But to me, life can almost seem like my own personal show.  Like, I mean, there are two infinitesimally significant events in our lives: our birth and our death.  Everything between, is just entertainment.     

“So you don’t care what kind of person you are?”

“Who you are is the lullaby you sing to yourself, as you drift to the eternal void.  Don’t worry you won’t understand.  That’s just an effect of being an actually living person,” Robin said, more than a little condescendingly, and perhaps sadly as well.

“Someone else will understand?”

“My dad is the only other person I’ve ever felt could see or even understand me, but then it feels like every time we see eye to eye, he closes his again.  It’s like he’s just sleepwalking through his family interactions.  Except with me, it feels as though he’s watching me, but when I try to meet his stare, he looks away.”

“Robin, after a while on H, you might just be getting paranoid.  What are you on now?”

“A lot of stuff, nothing specifically.  And you just do not get what I’m saying.”

“Doesn’t something in particular call to you?”

“… No, just depends on my mood really.”

“I envy you that, I really do.  Sometimes I feel so helpless, then I remember that I’ve done this to myself.”

“Well, yeah; but to be fair it was kinda forced on you also.”

“But Benjamin put everything he had into cleaning me up.”

“He did.  And if you were honest with him, he would do it again.  But more then that Caroline, that was his choice for his life; and this is your life, the kind of person you are, the choices you make are not contingent on someone else’s.  In other words, life accelerates at indeterminate velocity, if you don’t chaise it… your gonna miss it.”

“Is that a ‘Faris Beuler quote?”

“Essentially.”

Caroline burst into laughter; she’d gone lightheaded and her body, which always felt so foreign to her, was flooded with warmth.

“In my professional opinion you appear to be suffering from extreme female hysteria, which at one point was a punishable offence.”

“I hate when you diagnose me.”

“So you don’t want a prescription for that?”

“Sorry Doctor.  Give me the drugs.”

“Well if you say so,” Robin, tore a paper package open releasing a large glass bottle of fluid and two syringes.  “Would you like to do the honors?”

Caroline picked up a syringe and started squeezing out the clear liquid.

“Holy shit!  Not so much!  I mean you shoot that much and you won’t even enjoy it!  Hell you won’t remember it.  Relax,” robin took the syringe and sent half the liquid back into the bottle, “it’s called a trip Caroline, you might as well take in the sights,” with that Robin took Caroline’s arm, and gently injected the liquid.

My arm is tingling, no one’s ever been with me for this before. Thought Caroline, staring at Robin in nervous apprehension, as she injected herself with an equivalent amount. 

“Robin?”  Asked Caroline.

“Yeah?”

“How much of this are you going to remember?”

“Ahhh, most of it, I think, I didn’t use too much…  Why?”

“Ahh… No reason.”

 Despite her reduced dose, Caroline had never felt so high, while Robin was endowed with a strange sobriety.  Together they drifted along a trip not totally foreign to either of them, but walking hand in hand, their travels were reinvigorated.

@echoesarelies

When Rita finished work that day she was still somewhat energized from her coffee break earlier that afternoon.  It was Seven o’clock, she had poured herself a double martini and was now chasing it with rich Pino Grigio.  She settled into her favorite living room chair, wine in hand and a thick case file as a bedfellow.  Ok lets see, Richard Fitzsimmons, age fifty-three, average joe, hospital administrator, less then 100,000 pounds to his name, no graduate degree, married, four kids.  Suing the passport agency, and his credit card company for giving away personal information… Dick, are you really ballsy enough to be a crown extortionist like my boss suggested?  Ok, so he claims that someone sent him his credit card bill early, which his wife read to discover that they were bankrupt, due to extensive call girl services.  Services, which were untraceable, due multiple witness accounts from several young ladies.  Sorry Dick, you’re bankrupt, serving 3-5 years and most likely divorced, no appeal.  Just as Rita was typing up this recommendation and draining her wine glass, she suddenly recalled another case, almost Mr. Fitzsimmons’ duplicate.  Fucking hell, again!  Rita put down her glass, stood up, and dialed a number, she paced agitatedly waiting to be received.

 “Josephine!... 

 What the hell is this bull shit!... 

 Don’t play dumb!  Richard Fitzsimmons…  sound familiar?...

 We’ve talked about this!... 

 Spare me your moral relativism!  If you hate John’s so much, why service them?... 

 Oh, so then its ok to exploit the British legal system to tear a man down?

 There are legal ways to protect them Josie... 

 I don’t want to know how you did it!... 

 Alison… Alison’s back?  Is she working for you again?... 

 You know the way I mean… 

 But she’s defiantly back?  Does that mean… is he back?... 

 I think… I want to see him now… 

 Can you get him to see me?... 

 Ok, can you talk to her… 

 Thanks Josie… 

 Oh right, that’s fine, I’ll just tell my boss that there is anecdotal proof Mr. Fitzsimmons is trying to defraud the crown… 

 Just talk to him, get him to agree… 

 Thanks again, bye.”

 Rita hung up the phone, and set it down in its receiver, she was shaken with excitement.  She walked star-struck through her nighttime rituals: washing her face, pleating her hair, plucking that one chin hair, dabbing chemical cleanser on blemishes, pouring another glass of wine.  However tonight she couldn’t focus on her “Theory of Law,” book and instead opted to turn on her little-used television set.  Usually uninterested, tonight she was in awe of the flickering light and sound waves radiating towards her, she was swept away in the lives of this family, the blackened duck leg of that angry chef, the grotesque gyrating of this pop star, or the sexual relations of that couple.  She watched late into the night and slept past her alarm, arriving an hour late for work, something she had never done before.

“So, do you come here often?” asked Willium Saunders, awkwardly.

 “Never been actually,” confessed Rita, taking a step forward followed by her companion.  They were standing in line at a small, elegant Parisian café, both the dower service and the line around the block suggested authenticity.

 “But you were so adamant about this place,” laughed Willium.

 “Well I’m looking for the best coffee in Clapam, and I’ve been meaning to try this place, the reviews are good though. Consider this is a test run.”

 “Do you mean the cafe or your escort?”

 “Both, I’m prone to efficiency.”

 “Good to know,” laughed Willium, “and why were you so insistent on this day then?  Also an efficiency motive?”

 “Yes actually, I’ll tried a complicated case this morning, and wanted to celebrate or compencate with drink.” 

 “So, what are you going to have?”

 “Coffee.”

 “Really?” asked Willium incredulously.

 “Yes?  This is a cafe.”

 “But just coffee, not; triple, decaf, half cream, caramel bull shit?”

 “Well as appealing as that sounds, I really just need a coffee today.  I mean I would prefer to take it intravenously, but until this place gets a medical license; I guess I’ll have to drink it.”

 “Well I could make that happen for you, I am a doctor after all.”

 “We may still have some work to do on your bedside manor, doctor.”

 “That’s just fine with me, so long as it’s your bed,” there was a pause; in which Rita had to decided weather she was offended or cajoled by Willium’s good natured flirtation, she chose the latter.  They approached the cashiers desk laughing.

 “Are you going to order, or just hold up the line?” asked an exceptionally pretty but haggard barista. 

 “Absolutely we are,” smiled Willium, causing the barista’s glower to soften into a smile and twirl a strand of loose hair coquettishly.  “Lets see, can I have a cappuccino, and the lady will have a coffee.”

 “Don’t order for me,” said Rita unreasonably insulted.

 “My apologies,” Willium said, placing his hand humbly on his chest and bowing to the side, then to the bar maid he said: “Please take coffee off the order.”

 “Ok, ok.  Madame?” asked the Barista again impatient.

 “…  And a coffee,” grimaced Rita.

 “Scrae blue!” scowled the Barista, “Look if you want to drive away out costumers with your idiocy, do it after they have gotten their coffee, ok?” she didn’t wait for an answer, “Next, veit, veit!”    

 In the din of the café, they didn’t speak again until safely out of shouting range.  They settled at a window table near the back of the café, and sipped their truly excellent coffees.

 “Damn, see I just knew the coffee would be exellent when the server started insulting us.  What is it about the French that can just make you feel like last season’s…  something fashionable,” Rita said, taking another gratifying sip.

 “You think that’s bad, I was going to order a triple decaf, half cream, caramel bull shit drink,” said the doctor sheepishly.

 “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a hypocrite in our midst!  And tonight he is going to perform the difficult and dangerous act of, eating his own words, that’s right eating, his own, words,” mocked Rita.

 “Yeah, Yeah, laugh it up.”

 “You know your treating my like a patient, you’ve just admitted to mirroring me.  I already know I would date myself; you don’t need to prove it.

 “Sometimes its hard to distance yourself from something, that is so ingrained in your identity, something that’s really become the backbone of your self esteem.”

 “Believe me I understand, still I don’t really think you need any help in the self esteem department.”

 “Trust me, the only reason I had courage enough to approached in the first place was because I had my stethoscope securely strapped around my neck.”

 “Crippling insecurity and overcompensation is just so attractive in a man.”

 “What can I say, I guess my single-mother over complimented me as kid.”

“That’s a little disturbing, maybe you should seek professional help.”

“Hey not everyone can have the picket fence childhood.  Not that growing up with your parents would have been the easiest environment to self-actualize in.”

 They both laughed, then shared a comfortable silence, abundant with ‘accidental’ eye contact.  Rita, reluctantly had to admit the success of this trail, both the café and the man had proved quite adequate.

 “So how are my parents?”  Asked Rita.

 “Don’t tell anyone, but they are by far my favorite patients, I generally feel that they are indulging me by even showing up to our appointments.”

 “Don’t take it personally that’s their general attitude towards conversing anyone.”

 “You know they cheat at cards.  We don’t allow the seniors to gamble but if we did, your parents would be millionaires.”

 “I can’t believe them, I’ll have a talk with them.”

 “Please don’t, they entertain the staff, and by staff, I mean myself.  One thing I was wondering about though, is if you could fill in some of gaps or the gap in their memories?”

 “Possibly.”

 “Well I was hoping you could tell me about your childhood, as neither of your parents seem to remember anything from before the fire.”

 “This topic feels a little too intimate for a first date and slightly too clichéd for therapy, but why not.  Let me see, I’m the second youngest of seven, sorry six.  I guess my childhood was relatively normal, I don’t really think about it too often.  As my sister Josie would say: ‘Momento Mori.’”

“Remember you will die?” “So live while you can, is the obvious connotation.”

 “Did your parents share this perspective, how was their relationship?”

 “Pretty similar to how it is now, you know, calm, traditional, codependent.”

 “So how was your relationship with them?”

 “Normal I suppose, I grew up in this annoyingly small town so I spent a lot of time in the house.  I mean it must have been pretty good or I wouldn’t visit them so often.”

 “I grew up that way too, a tiny ‘Twin Peaks’ like village.  So you don’t remember anything unusual, or out of place?”

  “Well, I’m starting to understand how it must feel to be a witness on the stand.  Except I’m used to being the one doing the interrogating.”

 “I’m sorry,” laughed the doctor, “No more talk about your parents.”

 “Not that doing so isn’t quality first date material…  Actually there is something I’ve been curious about.  In your professional opinion, what do you think my parents would say, if I told them about, this?”   

 “I suspect they’d think you could do better.”

 “That doesn’t really sound like them.  They’d probably think you could do better.”

 “What do you think?” asked the doctor

 “Well, the coffee’s good, but the service is terrible.”

 “Are you calling me ugly?”

 “No I’m calling you sleazy, you mustn’t try to bull shit a bull shitter.  I’m a lawyer remember.”

 “I thought we’d covered this!  I’m a Physiatrist; I deal exclusively in bullshit!”

 “Yet another career equivalence.”

 “…  if I’m honest; I think this ‘coffee,’ is amazing.”

The court was packed with civilians and reporters.  Its standing room only for today’s sentencing.  I really should have expected this, with the controversy over this case.  Thought Rita.  And of course everyone loves to watch the young and beautiful decimated; they cry the most enticing tears.  She’s already crying.  Her “sister” seems to be growing uneasy with the intensity of her stare.  They do look alike, Maria must be so proud. 

 “Are we to hear from the accused, before sentencing?” inquired the Judge.

 Maria shared a glance with her lawyer, then arose nervously straightening her jumpsuit.  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, I don’t expect you to grant me my freedom, I’ve never expected that of anyone.  And I’m not offended that everyone in this packed courtroom has decided on my guilt, and conspired on my doom.  I don’t expect anyone will listen to this either, but I can truthfully say that everything I’ve done, was done out of love.  Love is, and has been my only salvation, the only control I’ve had.  And you may lock me up, and beat me down, and take my self-respect; but, I love…  Always.”  Maria’s sister squirmed uneasily under Maria’s teary eyed stare. 

 The bustling court was silent then, until, the chair Jurr rose with their consensus.  “On the count of second degree murder, we the Jury find Mrs. Maria Hossini to be… Guilty on all charges.”

 Rita looked around the courtroom she had always felt so at home in, and for the first time noticed how the mahogany paneled walls somehow smelled of pine and chemicals.  How the seem on her leather chair was split, held together with duct tape.  The artificial grandeur of this court is synonymous with all the shit that transpires here.  And this is basis of constitutional authority.

 “On the second count of first degree murder, we the Jury find Mrs. Maria Hossini to be… Guilty on all charges.”

 The fire in our house is still a cold case.  It was declared arson, every-one of my siblings are suspects, but the investigation just dissipated with the smoke; yet another indictment of the British justice system.  

 Judge Janet pounded her gavel satisfied.  The judge then promptly stood up, (clutching her robes) and dismounted her podium in pursuit of Ms Hossini’s defense attorney. 

 No one cares whose truly responsible, so long as someone’s life goes up in flames.  This mahogany room is a tinderbox and all these people came for a witch burning.  Maria’s home has burned to the ground now, she’ll have to rebuild from inside a jail cell.  Unlike myself, she has no opportunity to escape the flames of her former life.  Maria was pulled out of her seat and dragged from court.  Rita followed her to an armored van; she paid the warden fifty pounds for five minutes of conversation with the handcuffed woman.

 Rita stood by the left side back door to the van, propping it open with her thigh, “Things should not have turned out this way.  But I’ll make sure your sister gets use of your inheritance money,” Rita took Maria’s hands pushing a cigarette up her sleeve, and past her handcuffs before releasing.

 “Thank you,” Maria nodded her head, in comprehension, her face stiff with dried tears.

 Rita slid the heavy bulletproof door shut and backed away, keeping eye contact with Maria.  Then she was gone.  I win again, yet another victory.

Alison tapped her mouse, illuminating an ancient desktop monitor; the time was three-forty-six am, “Go to back to bed, its late,” said Alison authoritatively.  She was once again reclining at her desk, wearing a man’s grey, extra large, paint stained shirt and a ski cap, to suppressing her mass of greasy blue hair.

 “The smoke,” said a tall lanky man, who was naked, and beaded with sweat, “It clouds my mind and clogs my throat.”

 In response Alison exhaled deeply, creating an elongated stream of smoke.

 “There’s a dragon in that room,” said the man growing agitated, “I think he wants to eat my heart.” 

 “No there isn’t,” responded Alison plainly.

 “Yes there IS!” continued the man, suddenly upset. 

 “The smoke Freddie, remember the smoke,” said Alison blowing tobacco fumes towards the man.  For a moment the fog seemed to ground him, but he was too distrot to inhale.

 “You don’t know!  You can’t here them!  They sent her here.  My sister.  She wants to devour me!  I won’t see her!”  The man started ripping at his blond hair, and scratching at his arms.  He bit into the side of his tongue, filling his mouth with metallic tasting blood, a habit so often repeated it was comforting.

 Alison put her cigarette out, directly on her desk.  Stood up and walked to face the delirious man, looking up she attempted to meet his eyes.

 “Their going to find me, find me, find me.  We have to go!” His voice was erratic and panicked; he grabbed his head and hunched forward, avoiding her eyes.

 Alison reached an arm up around the man’s boney shoulders, pushed her fingers under his, grasping at his hair.  She pulled his head onto her shoulder, and brought her other arm around his arched back digging her nails into his clammy flesh, and pressing her lips to his temple.  Finally, he released his head, and and wrapped his arms around her lower back, actually lifting her off the ground, as he cried into her (actually his) old shirt.  She said nothing as he sobbed, but pulled his hair hard, creating a reassuring pain.     

 Several minutes later Alison pulled away, dropping a few inches to the ground.  She removed her ski cap and pulled it over the mans ears, before leading him to her bed, and pulling the covers around him.  She carefully refused to croon over him, choosing instead to leave promptly.  As she rose from the sheet-less black futon, the man grabbed her wrist tightly.

 “Will everything be better when I sleep?” he asked.

 “Its possible,” she replied.

 “Will everything be better when I wake up tomorrow?”

 “No.” 

 “Will I be ok?”

 “I don’t think so,” said Alison cooly, “but l’ll love you regardless.”

 “I love you,” said the man still somewhat frightened.

“Good night Fredrick.”  Alison said, as she walked out the door, leaving it open so that he would smell her cigarette.  Fredrick lay awake absorbing Alison’s fumes; the smell that was once the breath of a ferocious dragon, now enveloped him in reassurance.  He bit his tongue again, feeling the pain this time.  His mind emptied, with every iron-ridden drop of blood.  He focused on every breath of the toxic pacifier, becoming more and more solid, until finally, he was present. 

In the social room of the ‘Babbling Brooks Retirement home’ there was a very special table.  A table that had once belonged to someone’s grandmother, its amber grained surface, was now shamefully hidden beneath a plastic tablecloth garishly depicting fruit.  Around the table sat eight retirees clad in appropriate shrouds of depression or domesticity.  Of the eight people, six were at least partially conscious, four were aware of the card game they were playing, and two were the notorious card-sharks, Mr. and Mrs. Abodee. 

 “Do…  You…  Have…  A… Sixxx?” asked a man hooked into his wheelchair with tubes and wires.

 “You already asked that!” said a thin, belligerent woman, “Stupid man!  I don’t know I why I ever got married!  I really don’t.”

 “Do…  You…  Have…  A…  twooo?” asked the man, gasping after every word.

 “We don’t have a six or a two dear,” said Mrs. Abodee sympathetically although she had both.

 “Go fish,” confirmed Mr. Abodee.

 The game lasted hours because of the time it took for each player to articulate their move.  Eventually three of the sleepers were roused and joined the game.

 “Hit me,” said a gruff man his mouth in a determined pout beneath a grey handlebar moustache. “Damn it,”  He said a moment later.

 “I saw your daughter talking to Dr. Saunders the other day, I never knew they were dating.  I had always assumed she was a ‘gay’,” the librarian-like woman whispered the last word, raising her eyebrows to form an arch over her half moon spectacles.  “I’m quite relived to see she’s not, so I can take her immortal soul out of my prayers.  The list is already quite extensive, it takes me hours every night.”

 “Lucky girl, that doctor is a dish,” said the lemon mouthed woman.  “If I hadn’t been forced into marriage so young, I could have had twenty men like him; all at the same time, if I wanted.”               

 “My daughter isn’t dating anyone,” said Mrs. Adobee confused, “Jake?”  She called to her husband.

 “Yes Dear,” said Mr. Adobee, distracted by his cards, “Hit me.”

 “Is Rita dating our doctor?”

 “I don’t know dear,” he said while reshuffling the deck.  “Twenty, I win!  Blackjack again folks, or shall we try our luck at War…  Danny are you going wake up for War?”

  “William I spent five years overseas in the day.  If ya’ll are waging war, I’ve already set up my defensive parameter!” said the mustached man.

 “So there’s a consensus on war everybody?” asked William Adobee.

 “William, our daughter is dating our Physiatrist,” said Mrs. Adobee.

 “I heard you, but its not all together surprising, is it love?” replied Mr. Adobee while dealing cards.

 “Well isn’t it?  I mean it takes daddy issues to a new level.”

 “Yes but we always knew Rita was clawing tooth and nail for a scrap of personal security, and what is her parents caretaker if not secure,” asked Mr. Adobee.

 “I gave up my youth for security and look where it got me,” said the boney sour faced woman, practically snarling at her husband, “Fool!” she said as her husband dribbled some of his water from the corners of his worn lips.

 “Why doesn’t she just crawl back into womb?” sighed Mrs. Adobe.  “Oh would you look at that, I have a royal flush.”

 “Huh?” asked the plugged-in, wheelchair bound man.

 “They won again, Henry,” said the librarian. 

 “If I were a betting man…” said Danny suspiciously, “I’d say you had some luck up your sleeve.”

 “Hey, all is fair in love and war,” grinned Mr. Adobee.