NorthOfNorth wrote on Nov 22
nd, 2021 at 10:56am:
NorthOfNorth wrote on Nov 22
nd, 2021 at 7:55am:
NorthOfNorth wrote on Nov 21
st, 2021 at 11:23pm:
Lisa Jones wrote on Nov 21
st, 2021 at 8:47pm:
Frank wrote on Nov 21
st, 2021 at 8:36pm:
Jim Lahey wrote on Nov 21
st, 2021 at 11:20am:
You have been pood on so much, Turdovich, that you are no longer visible under the pile of shite. You are one with it.
Hey Frank
Pecktard's poo continues here ....try not to laugh too much though 😂🤣😆
She ambled back from her meeting with the occupant four sites down, unlocked the door to her caravan, as an unfamiliar sensation of integration with the cosmos rippled through her like an implacable process of geology.
Finally, she thought, as she undressed then rubbed herself down with dry shower powder, someone who understands her; maybe even he's her intellectual equal.
Sure he was an ex-priest and, well, he did hit the sauce a bit hard around the start of the Sabbath...
Hmm... The Sabbath...
Was he a priest or a rabbi? In all the chatter about herself, her multiple real estate deals, her medical conditions, her academic achievements, her direct relationship to seven European royal houses, she'd not asked. She'd just assumed. After all, she'd noticed the contents of his opened wardrobe; all black suits.
Do rabbis also only wear black, she wondered.
As she lay on the bed, while outside evening deepened into night, she noticed the bed was still skew-whiff; something for another day, she decided.
Right now her most pressing thought, that would soon consume her dreams, was how to manage this ex-priest, ex-rabbi, whatever, towards helping her do in the park manager.
Her eyes snapped open.
Was that a toilet flushing? She glanced at her watch: 2:00AM.
She crept to the caravan's back window, which faced the park's office, and took a furtive look. The office light was on.
Were those voices she could hear?
They were.
The park manager had someone with him in his office. How many, she wondered.
She tried to listen to the conversation, but it was too far away and they were talking in hushed tones.
No matter, she reasoned, this is the smoking gun. She was sure of it.
The park manager was on meth and he was organising a deal with his supplier.
So, what to do, she pondered. Call the cops? Yes... That would be the right thing to do with a serious drug deal going down... But, then, the park manager might not know that it was her who'd done him in.
And she wasn't having that. The park manager must be done in and he must know that it was she who'd done it.
She was going to bust the lot of them herself, she resolved.
She dressed herself and exited her caravan beating a quiet, stealthy path to the office.
They were still in there. The two strangers were talking. They had accents. An international connection, eh. Even better.
She crept to the office door and tried the handle. The door was unlocked. She opened it and slithered through.
They were in the back room. The foreigners were still talking.
She sidled up to the room's entrance, took a breath, braced herself... Then sprung.
So! She yelled. Busted!
The park manager exploded out of his slumber, dazed and confused. Wha.. What? He mumbled.
He stared at her in shock. His long-handled torch was not by the armchair he'd fallen asleep on, so he felt defenseless.
On the TV Humphrey Bogart was bidding Ingrid Bergman a final farewell.
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