(The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Tyger works a surprising case in Columbia,
Mississippi. Discussion of the significance of the white pelican.
Then, Tyger and Joe Fine go in on Dill Pickle. Joe dresses in
full camouflage gear and hides in the deep woods. Tyger, with the
aid of an evangelical family, sets up on Pickle and pursues him
to a church. The chapter ends with a bizarre confrontation
between Subject and investigator.
“WHEN YOU GOT NOTHING, YOU GOT NOTHING TO LOSE”
Back, back, back, back, back … Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win!
Thank you very much Harry Caray. Thank you gods of April for
bringing back our wonderful American sport of baseball even if
the Cubs have won this day. Tyger emerges from
the zen-like state engendered from his mainline habit. Baseball, baby,
all is right in the world. Tyger leans back in his chair, oops,
catches himself almost falling. Opening Day.
By now, you probably realize the ultimate
fate of this edition of Chicago’s not finest. But that is another story.
For now, Tyger contemplates his navel, taking a last long
tug of a toke on a blunt. He has not smoked any reefer for a
while, but tradition being what it is must make exception this
fine fine day and smoke a fatty. It happens every spring.
Drifting into a contemplative cloud, dear Tyger counts his
blessings, sort of. A good job, for now, some money; no
girlfriend, but a few friends; and baseball until November.
Made it, thank goodness through another long lonely winter.
April is not the cruelest month, contrary to popular poetry.
The world renewed is coming to life again. Flowers and trees
blossom. Birds along telephone high wires sing sing.
Let Nancy Ray-Gun just say no. Tyger is just saying
yes yes yes yes yes. Thank you Lord for everything.
Face it folks, the age of Ray-Gun is one giant horrible
mistake. Everybody is going to have it pay for it someday.
Duh, duh duh wah duh …
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
(Of course, special prosecutor-confiscated Weinberger
Iran-Contra notes indicate the defense czar told Ray-Gun all
about the scam as soon as it happened. Then again, faulty memory
chips can go a long way towards ruining ye olde untrusty
presidential circuit board.)
The arms-for-not-hostages crowd dirty tricked poor old
Jimmy Carter just before the 1980 election trading our nation’s
future for a bowl of porridge, sticking it to us with an evil
legacy. An honest man fighting fairly on the platform of
decency in government never had a chance.
Poor ozone layer. Poor national debt. Poor poor economic
distress as a few get rich quicker while everyone else pays for
their party. The cynical fuckers laugh all the way to the savings and
loan handout bash claiming too much government until they need
government guaranteed bailout money to keep their imported
Mercedes and luxury Japanese cars running. Then, they blame
others for the incredibly growing national debt.
What a lame excuse for human beings. They loot the country
blind while bailing out their savings and loan buddies with taxes
paid by welfare recipients, then rub the poor suckers’ faces in it.
Not to mention all the other evil they perpetrate.
They luck out when Communism runs out of steam coincidentally with
their rule, naturally taking credit for it; then, do nothing
to help the recently freed captive peoples. Not their department.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
Hey guys, enough already. You are only fooling some of the
people some of the time, but in 1988 America that apparently ie enough.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
Ah, forget those heebie-jeebies for now. Tyger gets some
z’s. He rises and shines a few happy baseball days later on the
way to another assignment.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
Tyger has two assignments in the week before the Louisiana
Jazz and Heritage Festival, popularly known as Jazz Fest, is set
to begin. Now, there is some bread and circus action actually
worth paying for and attending.
Until that time, he will travel to Columbia, Mississippi on
one case, then assist Joe Fine in Loranger on the aptly named Dill Pickle.
Should be fun comrades. Buckle up your safety belts.
Ready, steady go.
Early to bed, early to rise, Tyger departs the City that
Care Forgot at 6:30 a.m. bound for another state entirely, good
neighbor to the north, Mississippi on our mind. A place that
makes even Lousyiana look good.
Tyger flies to the east, past the high rise, past the vast
expanse of Lake Ponchartrain. Sea gulls flap in the rising sun,
up up and away like beautiful balloons.
What is that, a white pelican? Tyger spies the majestic
soaring creature craning her long neck looking over a smaller
companion flying side-by-side. The pelican swoops by Tyger’s
mother the car before rising majestically towards the blue sky
divided in half by one large white cloud.
Very like a vision, investigator Hamlet;
pause, re-consider your mortality.
The pelican sees all, knows all, and in these southern wetlands
is like a Northern Spotted Owl wise.
Comrades: salute this Surveillance Pelicana.
Give her your all and fly on by.
Some dreams might yet live forever.
When all has vanished, ice shelves melted,
Pelican of the mid’s eye survives for inspiration.
Anyone can fly, just try your darndest,
over to Interstate 59 past Slidell,
Across the border to the Magnolia State
near Picayune. Good morrow, Mississippi.
Driving through the Mississippi woods, tall
piney forests that block the sun,
sliding on over to (Jo)Hattiesburg,
white trash capital of the world
just this side of South Africa.
Another 98 miles to the west to Columbia,
precious diamond of southern Mississippi.
Columbia is not the worst place in the world.
City possesses a quaint Old South charm.
Due to nearby oil deposits as well as
a booming lumber industry, a decent economic outlook as well.
Subject in this case is P.K. French, mid-40s, married,
back injury sustained in a tugboat accident.
Supposedly, he is unable to move without excruciating pain.
Case calls for standard operating procedure. Tyger is in
temporary possession of the baby seat system,
ready to troll that rock along.
The journey provides a rare opportunity to leave the Pelican
State for gentle hills that contrast nicely with Louisiana’s
infinite flatness. The air seems cool and crisp.
Tyger sets up a good camera angle atop a small hill staring
down on the French residence. He walks to a nearby hospital —
the facility looks to be in very good condition — and checks in
with Dorothy behind the curtain at Oz.
“Run the system until 1 p.m.,” she says, “then,
return to the scene, put in another tape and stick nearby to
see if French is moving.” No problem, Tyger will try French undressing.
Tyger’s first order of business is making himself scarce
until afternoon. He finishes a cup of coffee at the hospital
cafeteria, checking out some knock-you- dead-kick-you-in-the-head smashing nurses.
It is but mere diversion. He will never return. Everybody looks at him oddly
as in who is that guy. Tyger figures — Columbia being a small town of maybe 25,000
souls — he probably sticks out like a Mr. Milty face mural. He departs for Downtown.
The place has all the trappings one would expect of a small
southern burg. Small square with shops and a movie theater
surrounding Marion County Courthouse. Bus station stands to
the southeast. General post office sits in the opposite direction.
Tyger assumes his best Christopher Columbus imitation,
setting out for exploration, hoping not to fall off the edge of the
world. He passes a high school right out of “Back to the Future
Part I” or some weird time warp, past a Sears catalogue store —
didn’t know they still existed — and over to a small shopping center.
Pretty girls all in a row. Pretty girls, where do they go?
Pretty girls are everywhere. Must be something in the water or air.
What the hey, nothing going on, so Tyger picks a cute cute
blonde at semi-random. He asks her the standard investigator’s
questions. What’s happening? Where is a good place to grab lunch?
“Why, y’all are right there,” she answers. “They have the
best barbecue in town.” She points to a rather strange looking
dance hall. “That’s a restaurant?” queries Tyger in amazement.
“Oh yeah. Great food. They have disco at night. Set
out a nice buffet about now. Give it a try.”
“Care to join me?”he asks the quarry.
“Sorry sir. I can’t. I’m working at the Christian book
store over there,” pointing across the center to a small
bookstore he hadn’t noticed. “I just finished my break.
Stop by if y’all get a chance later.” Neeever mind.
“Thanks then. I’ll give the place a try.” Tyger knows he is
not her type, so bows out gracefully and enters the barbecue
They have an all you can eat buffet set up for $4. The
Christian chick, for a change, like the price, is right on
target. Tyger heaps his plate with cornbread, ribs, sliced beef,
cole slaw, salad, topping it off with sweet tea to drink.
Damn. And they say New Orleans has good food. That stuff
tastes great. It is an awesome and unexpected feast in Yahooland.
The price is definitely right as well. Kind of funny, too,
eating that down-home cooking by the dormant disco spinning
balls, pool tables, and long bar that apparently converts into
night-time entertainment.Time passes fitfully until noon.
Tyger walks back to the courthouse, conducting
a records check on French. It shows he owns his house and adjoining lot,
has no criminal or other civil charges. French seems to be something
of an oddity in this strange world of insurance claim fraud.
He appears to be a solid citizen. Can you beat that? Always a first time.
Tyger checks back on his equipment at about 1 p.m.
Everything looks good. No activity of which to speak.
Dorothy advises her investigator upon check-in to interview some of French’s neighbors under pretext,
then pick up and head home to La Louisiane.
No problem. Ce’st si bon. An elderly man mows his long green lawn
two houses down from the French residence.
Tyger approaches him in an easygoing friendly manner,
mentioning he is an old buddy of French’s who was looking up the old rascal.
Unfortunately, no one answers the door. Tyger wonders if the gay blade is at home.
“Oh yeah, I expect he is just sleeping or knocked out on something,” the neighbor reports.
“He got injured real bad on a tugboat a while back, can barely walk.
He don’t go nowhere no more. I’ve known the family forever. Feel for the boy.
He is good people. Too bad about his tough luck.”
“What about that nice new red truck in the yard?” Tyger asks.
“He must drive that around sometimes. It’s a real beauty.”
“Nah,” the man replies. “His wife drives it sometimes. So do some of his relatives.
But I never seen P.K. drive at all since his mishap.
It is a damn shame that something like that happens to a good person
with all them outlaws running around the world.
“I don’t know. Maybe he will be free if you check with him
in a little while. I’m sure he would like the company.”
Well, what do you know. P.K. French seems to have a
legitimate case. Always a first time.
Tyger picks up the system heading south towards home.
Maybe the insurance company won’t like the results, but facts,
as they say, are stubborn things.
Next assignment on Sunday April 17, 1988, turns out to
be no less amazing, but for directly opposite reasons. It is
another Joe Fine affair. That generally means something weird is
going to happen.
This time the fabled Dill Pickle is in for a bad day at black
rock. Tyger meets Joe at the Loranger mini-mart and receives a big shock.
Joe is dressed out in full military camouflage gear. He looks
ready for World War Four with camouflage painted face.
The plan is this: Joe is going in the woods behind the
Pickle pad with a long-range still photo lens set-up and exotic
radio device. Tyger is to station himself at the top of the hill
where he had once spoken to the woman with the beautiful
daughters. Joe, posing as a hunter, will try to get some shots of
Pickle from the woods, alerting the waiting Tyger should the
alleged scoundrel move. Then, Tyger is to follow the Pickle party
with the black box system in his vehicle, shooting whatever pictures possible.
The well-dressed insurance scam artist hunter these days is
armed with, among other items, a pair of binoculars, and insect
repellant. “I just hope no one shoots me out there,” notes Joe.
“Some of those assholes are crazy.” Yeah, right.
If Pickle returns home, Tyger will contact Joe who will
resume his active surveillance. Oh brother, Tyger thinks, this
one is shaping up to be a doozy. Guess Joe Fine has become bored
back home in Florida with the little snot-noses, or somebody more
drastic like his wife.
The plan smacks of overkill, although no denying
the Dill Pickle location is a tough surveillance assignment. Joe,
of course, seems very pleased with his intricately machiavellian machinations.
Of course, Tyger is in it for the full measure. Taking what
they’re giving, Huey Lewis breath, ’cause he’s working for a living.
Tyger is curious, as well, about the final outcome. Has Joe
completely lost it, or what. Otherwise, pretty much
standard method of operation. If they lose commos
or anything really weird happens, contact Dorothy who is on Oz
standby. Following general orders.
“Let’s do it to it,” Joe says. “Let the game begin.”
Tyger takes Joe to a spot about one-third of a mile down the road
from the Pickle place, leaving him off on the two-lane asphalt
highway. Boss man wanders into the forest.
“Damn,” Tyger says out loud to fellow invisible forest
creatures. “Hope this thing works out.”
Then the terrible Tyger person heads up the hill to a
waiting location outside the fabulous farmhouse. It will take an
earthquake or act of God to move him.
Tyger sits for about 20 minutes on his car’s front hood
contemplating the existential nature of his navel.
Suddenly,crackle, crackle, pop, Joe comes in on the two-way radio.
“Position Tyger. Position Tyger. Do you read? Over.”
Crackle crackle pop. “Do you read. Over.”
Tyger scrambles to the radio set lying covered by a Kool-Aid
Kids beach towel on his front seat, reaches through the open
window, and responds. “Ahhh, yes. Read you. Over.
Come in Number One. Over.”
“Nothing happening here Position Tyger. Waiting for the antelope
to roam. How about you? Any sightings? Over.”
“No sir. No sir. No bags full.
All is quiet on the northern front.
“Have established forward position,” Tyger says.
Awaiting further instructions, Number One”.
Er, almost forgot. “Over.”
“Roger dodger,” Super Sleuth continues. “Read you very nicely, nicely,
Position Tyger. Have set up forward base alpha, waiting
for the antelope to roam. Maintain current position.
Will advise as necessary. Over and out.”
“Roger, Number One. Over and out,” crackle crackle pop.
Tyger returns the radio set.
He looks nervously over his shoulder hoping no one has noticed.
A stranger surreptitiously squawking on a shortwave radio
in the middle of nowhere does not look too suspicious.
No, not too suspicious.
Hurry up and wait again.
Tyger chills as the day heats up a bit this being the gateway season
to that godawful hot as hell Louisiana summer.
Hurry up and wait another 20 minutes.
Finally, the woman with the beautiful daughters
wanders over to nearby Position Tyger.
“Sorry, couldn’t help but notice you,” she says sweetly.
“May I help you with something. We live in that house.”
She points the way.
“Thought maybe you had car trouble or something.”
“Oh yeah, ma’am,”Tyger picks up on cue.
“Nothing really bad. This darn beast always overheating lately.
Waiting for a friend to give me a lift.
Alright if I stay here a spell? Won’t bother anybody.”
“Oh dear. Yes. If you need to use the phone.”
“No thank you ma’am, but thanks for offering. I’ll be alright.”
“Well, I will be inside then. If you need something, a glass
of sweet tea maybe, please come inside.”
Nice lady. (She does not seem to remember
giving road directions during Tyger’s last visit. Or does she?)
More time passes, as it must inevitably. A
vehicle resembling Pickle’s land rover zooms by. Tyger jumps in
the car and heads off in hot pursuit forgetting about his cover story.
Turns out to be a mirage, a figment of the investigator’s
bored silly imagination. He returns to the sacred spot.
Then, crackle crackle pop. Shit, here we go again. Tyger
picks up the radio receiver.
“Do you read Position Tyger? Do you read? Over.”
“Yes Number One. Reading very clearly. Over.”
“Be advised. Have moved to better hunting location. No antelope
activity. Still waiting to take a shot. Over.”
“Very good Number One. Sticking with it. Over.”
Crackle crackle pop and silence.
Oh crap, here comes the woman from the house again.
Tyger does not want to leave the position. It’s the prime spot at the
top of the hill. He fears falling out of commos with
“Number One.” Might as well see what she wants.
“Now son,” she begins. “I have seen your car running
just fine thank you and saw that radio too. I would like to know what
you are up to. We just moved here from Pennsylvania.
There seems to be a lot of crime around here.”
No shit, Sherlock. Tyger figures the jig is up.
Can this woman, theoretically of God, be trusted?
“Ahh,” Tyger says, “You know the Pickle people down the road?”
“Pickle people? No sir. We don’t know nobody yet.
Moved here two months ago for the clean air, healthy lifestyle,
and to re-establish our church. Still getting acquainted with the area.”
Take the win then.
“Sorry if that looked weird,” Tyger says.
“We’re insurance investigators checking out these
people down the road. We have reason to believe one of them
filed a bogus claim. Trying to make sure justice is done.
“Ahhh. I thought you might be up to something unusual,” she says,
“what with the radio and all.”
“I know that looked strange,” Tyger says.
“We are authorized by the courts to pursue this matter.
I will move along to another place if it makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“No. No. You need not do that.” And pause.
“These people claim they are injured when they are not?”
“That’s about the size of it, ma’am,” Tyger says.
“Kind of a horrible scam they’re pulling. Not that
insurance companies are great citizens. Just that
it is wrong, ya know, morally, to lie and steal.”
“It is indeed,” she says. “I could not agree more.
God teaches every man to follow the commandments,
lead an honest, fruitful existence.
That is one of the reasons we moved our church here to this pure land.”
“Ahh,” the irony. “Church. May I inquire as to your denomination?”
“We are evangelical Christians. We believe in following the true precepts of the Bible
as closely as possible while adapting them to modern society.
We are not affiliated with any false organization.
We adhere to the true principles of Yahweh,
his son Jesus Christ, the Trinity, and Holy Ghost.”
“I see,” Tyger notes, although not really.
“l am Jewish myself.”
“Oh yes,” stop us if you’ve heard this before,
so she goes, “Original children of God. We love
Jewish people. But hope, of course, they eventually
see the light and accept our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.”
“Working on that, ma’am.”
,”God bless you then.”
They stop, stare at each other.
In a rural Tangipahoa field, fertile and fine,
God bless us every one.
Speaking of which, one of the beautiful daughters,
pple cheek smile, about 20 years old. Such an innocent looking doe.
“Mama. Sorry to interrupt,” she says. “We have to attend to the chickens in the back garden.”
“Thank you dear for reminding me,” replies the goodly mother. She turns to Tyger.
“Stay as long as you like. If anyone bothers you, have them come inside and speak with me.
I will tell them you are a friend. And I feel you are a friend
Sinners must always be defeated. That is God’s law.”
Her daughter flashes the nicest smile this Year of Our Lord 1988.
“Thank you ma’am,” Tyger says. “Didn’t mean to involve you.”
“Please do. That is quite alright. Come along dear.”
Like a pretty little duckling, the girl walks just behind her mother
to the wood frame house about 50 yards away.
Back to reality rush.
Tyger climbs on the hood, awaiting further activity or instructions.
Crackle crackle. “Position Tyger. Position Tyger. Please be advised.
The antelope are roaming. The antelope are roaming. Do you read? Over.
“Roger. Please advise. Over.”
“Antelope crossing Highway 40 East
headed west. Please pursue. Over .”
“Roger. Over.””Over and out.”
Yeah right. Over and out of it.
The land rover whizzes by at that precise moment. Tyger
jumps in his vehicle and follows. He notices a man driving with
woman and small child shotgun; the Dill Pickle clan,
we presume, looping about two miles from home.
The Pickles pull into a rural Methodist church barrel. It
is, after all, about 11 a.m. Sunday morning. Time for …
Tyger sets up across the street from the church and runs the
video system. Dill Pickle, wife, and child disembark. Dill
seems to be shaking hands with a ministerial type.
Herr Pickle also appears to be suffering no visible signs of an
incapacitating neck injury as claimed to the insurance company.
He seems to be doing just ducky, lucky. What else is new?
Tyger lingers at what turns out to be a cemetery parking
lot. The congregation of about 70 parishioners enter the church.
He tries to reach Joe Fine in the woods, but can’t raise peep boo.
Tyger gets some religion for 45 minutes listening to the choir sing
through the open church doors followed by the pastor’s benediction.
The sermon is devoted to the evils of gambling and the pastor’s
opposition to a state lottery.
“This will be the ruination of any hopes for an honest
Loosiana,” intones the disembodied ministerial voice. “A lottery
shall steal money from the poor who have better odds of being hit
by lightning than of winning a seven million-to-one jackpot.
“A lottery will pave the way for sin. It will open the road
to casino gambling run by crooks bribing corrupt public officals.
Then, may God have mercy on our souls.”
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
Church lets out as steeple bells ring. The overactive
Dill Pickle experience jumps in his land rover. He drives away
followed by Tyger from the land of the dead to the hill of the
living word. The investigator resumes his position.
The familiar crackle crackle pop a minute later. “Come in
Position Tyger. Come in. Did you bag those antelope. Over?”
“Yes sir. Yes sir. Three bags full. Got them coming and going. Over.”
“Good work. You are in the usual position? Over.”
“Yes sir. Over.”
“Goody goody gumdrops,” camouflage Joe big foot says.
“Have to withdraw due to incredibly bothersome mesquites and other insects.
Be advised will be at the same old same old spot for pick-up.
Please be there in 20 minutes. Over.”
“Read you Number One. Over.”
“Roger dodger. Over and out.”
“Over and out.”
Tyger sits like a duck in his car. Suddenly,
a land rover rises from the bottom of the hill like a nasty wasp,
sweeping up to Tyger’s position, staked out on the high ground.
Tyger climbs out of the car. Ugh.
‘Tis Dill Pickle in the flesh wid wifey at his side.
Dilly Boy attempts to block Tyger’s car and then,
oh so painfully — no All My Children role for you —
emerges from the land rover. What do you know,
the son-of-a-bitch has put on a foam neck brace,
just for the show.
“What the hell are you doing,”
the 5’3″, 130 pound Pickle
starts bawling at the much larger Tyger.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing,”
Once more with feeling.
Tyger plays the ingenue.
“I know what you’re doing,” sour Pickle stews.
“You are following my wife.
Following my wife. How dare you?”
Good one. Playing the pickled pepper jealous husband card.
What will they think of next?
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tyger says.
“Please go away.”
“No. No. No. No.” Nancy Ray-Gun Pickle drones.
“Do you know you are trespassing. Private property.
Have you no honor, sir?”
Yeah, right. The game has grown tired.
“Do you want to go inside the house and ask if I’m trespassing,” Tyger says.
“They are friends of mine.”
“I don’t have to ask anybody anything,” Pickle continues.
“You are following my wife. You are following my wife …”
Pickle rambles on and on, on and F’in on,
finally turning a funny can you beet this color red
for good midget measure, a one trick pony run out of material
“Do you know that? Do you know what?
You are bothering my wife. You are bothering … ”
Broken record already. Tyger is sick of this shit already.
“Hey,” Tyger states, “if you’ve got a problem, why don’t we go into town,
speak with the sheriff. O.K.?”
Pickle hesitates and is lost.
“Let’s not involve the police in this,” he spits out the bait.
“Yes,”Tyger says. “Let’s involve the police in this.”
The — shall we say — conversation continues close
encounters of the pickled variety. “Let’s go into town.”
“Don’t involve the police in this. This is man to man.” “Yeah, right.”
Tyger sees a nice opening as he looks at the small space
between the land rover and his vehicle. That stupid Pickle is the
Roots Badburns of insurance scam scum; can’t even block a car correctly.
Tyger calmly re-claims his car, turns the key and vroom,
vroom, peels around Pickle’s useless land rover and out on to the
freedom of Highway 40 East.
The vanishing ghost can not resist slinging an
unprofessional parting shot. “Get fucked asshole,” he yells at
the furiously ridiculous subject. “Who do you think you’re fooling.”
Tyger goes into town just to stay on the safe side of the law,
pulling into the town sheriff’s parking lot. That is a right past
the mini-mart. He waits five minutes. No sign of the Dill Pickle.
Tyger returns up the highway. He spots Joe Fine emerging
from the woods, appearing a bit winded but no worse for the experience.
“Where have you been?” Joe asks. “I didn’t see you for a
minute. Had to wait back there in the pine trees. I was becoming concerned.”
“You would not believe what just happened,” Tyger says as he
relates the just past experience.
Joe Fine listens, nodding his head seriously. “What a
bastard. I think we have enough on him. Good hunting, doc.”
They return to the mini-mart and finish up by swapping out
various pieces of equipment. Tyger hands Joe the video cassette
and radio. Joe gives him a blank cassette and the still camera
without the long range lens.
“You still want a report right?” Tyger asks.
“Of course,” Joe replies authoritatively. “As always.
The insurance company will want to hear about this right away.
Check back with Dorothy tomorrow. Sooner we file,
sooner we get paid. See you when I see you.”
“O.K., boss man. Take care. And happy hunting.”
Tyger feels like he has been through the proverbial ringer.
He heads towards Interstate 55, back to the relative safety,
haha, of good old New Orleans. Or at least away from the
ridiculous likes of the Dill Pickle experience.
The detective also feels a sense of impending promise as he
relaxes, listening to a James Booker tune on the radio station.
The piano master who also worked as a New Orleans City Hall file clerk
before retiring from this mortal coil graces the keys of
memory, a rare bird in flight. The familiar song reminds
Tyger that next Sunday at this time he will b
having too much fun at the Jazz and Heritage Festival.
The intrepid investigator joyously contemplates such
coming attractions and attendant pleasures.
Good news travels quickly like a pristine white pelican
soaring above a black asphalt highway towards a wonderful future,
happy home. Or not.
“A human being is only breath and shadow,”