#Rook has the personality of a wet fish | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

covertleathers · 5 days ago

Text

Rating: 18+, Explicit, Gradually intensifying sexual tension, nudity, wet dreams (that was unexpected), etc etc

Relationships: Lucanis Dellamorte/m!Rook (They/Them pronouns)

Chapter summary: Post Weisshaupt, after their disagreement, Lucanis has effectively been benched by Rook (they've insisted he needs to rest). He doesn't do well sitting idly. So, he decides to start a cooking project that's unceremoniously crashed by Rook, Davrin, and Neve.

Author's Note: This feels like my strongest (and longest) chapter yet. I really thought nothing was going to top the first (that I wrote in a fever dream at 2am). But this feels like I've got the characterizations I want down. I feel like I've also finally reached a point where I can start teasing out more and more tension.

Chapter 7: Wine Stained Cards

Lucanis knew how to stay busy. Mornings were spent maintaining his weaponry. Laid out across his bed were ten blades of varying size and shape. The boot knife, a steely blue damascus eight inch blade with a garnet-adorned pommel, was the first he usually started with. As he brought the blade across the whetstone, the muscle memory of the ritual would take over. The slender dagger next, simple but deadly. He appreciated its simplicity and function. From there, Rialto, Crowkeeper, the poignard, and his favorite: God’s Foil. He smirked to himself at the last one.

While Rook was traveling with Davrin and Emmrich, he and Harding would meet and discuss the Inquisition. Of course there were aspects of the religious movement that he was well aware of, particularly their move to make a spymaster the Divine, but it was interesting to learn more of the experience from a personal point of view. Harding was too humble, clearly she had known the Inquisitor more than she initially let on. Especially if she had gotten close enough to Varric Tethras to work with him. Lucanis resisted several times to ask more about the famous author. That subject clearly brought his colleague a great deal of pain.

In the weeks after Weisshaupt, his restless mind resisted what felt like an unspoken forced respite from Rook. They had told him to “do whatever” he needed to refocus, but denied him what would have put the stabby urges to ease: killing targets. No Antaam or Venatori were going to show up here in the Fade for him to put down.

At the same time, the young mage had made their appearance in the kitchen every night they were sleeping at the Lighthouse. They did eventually return to the tale of the Verdant Wyvern. Rook read the story in its entirety as Lucanis prepped salted and brined fish for their next dinner. It was pleasant.

As he stayed at the Lighthouse, his ideas and desires for more elaborate and difficult meals to cook increased. First it had started with difficult pastries requiring elaborate and precise temperature control. Then, pickling became more interesting as he learned about pickled cabbage from Bellara. She said she had picked it up in her travels and wasn’t sure of the origin, but it was delicious enough to keep making it again and again.

On this particular night however, he was taking on another challenge. Those from outside of Antiva did not appreciate the difference between fresh or home made pasta. A bronze die at this particular moment was hard to come by at the Treviso markets. Lucanis suspected the Butcher had to have been collecting as much workable metals from the city as he could. Clearly this had changed the quality of the pasta that he had been able to acquire without tapping into some contacts. The previous night had been the last straw when the dried pasta had been the blandest he ever had the displeasure of tasting. Of course Neve, Harding, and Bellara didn’t notice. He had his own remedy of using a particularly good red wine with enough body to enhance the flavor.

He had time. He had hands itching to work. Determined, he visited a bakery and kindly asked for ten pounds of wild red and gold wheat. Not an odd request, he thought, but apparently a rare one. In a prosperous merchant city scarcely did anyone mill their own flour. A hand grinder and sifter he expertly haggled for from a local chef who frequently cooked for the revelers at the Cantori Diamond.

As soon as his companions had left him to his devices at the end of the night, he began the process. Lucanis opened the canvas bag of wheat, letting the earthy smell fill the air. The faint scent of petrichor emanating from it led him to believe it recently rained in the city. There was always a lingering scent of stone and earth in Treviso after a storm rolled through.

Faint memories floated at the bottom of the well of his mind. It was not the city he used to know. It had been transformed as he was. He ran his fingers through the grain and relished the sensation. Five pounds should do.

It seemed like getting it started was the hardest. A mixing bowl beneath to catch the flour as it fell away. Once the momentum carried his wrist, the grains melted away easily. Milling away endlessly. The handle of the grinder tested his forearm. It was as soothing as running a whetstone against a blade.

Lucanis took moments to pause and sift to refine the flour before he continued the labor. It fell cleanly into a soft, yellow-white mountain at the center of the mixing bowl. He wasn’t sure how much time passed as he did this. If he paid too close attention, the pain in his forearm would become too loud.

Approaching footsteps snapped him out of his trance. Heavy. Self assured. Direct. Davrin. Back from the Necropolis, it seemed. And late at that. But, that also meant—ROOK.

“Not today, Spite,” He muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. It took a lot of mental fortitude to keep the demon quiet.

Sure enough, Davrin pushed open the kitchen doors, bare of his armor with a ragged look on his face. Lucanis smirked. The Necropolis had that effect on people. In tow, in great contrast was a grinning Rook, who seemed to be teeming with renewed vitality. His brow furrowed slightly, Rook’s steps were always so soft they were barely perceptible.

“Ah, see, I told you he’d be here,” Rook chirped excitedly as they floated to the dining table where Lucanis had set up shop. They leaned on the table across from him, peering into the bowl full of flour. “Always doing late night treat making.”

Davrin joined Rook at their side, elbow resting on their shoulder as he also looked over Lucanis’ handiwork. They were so comfortable with each other. “That just looks like flour. Rook promised you’d be cooking something, Lucanis,” he sighed. “I was hoping for a late night meal.”

Lucanis averted his eyes and drew his attention to the giant bag of wheat next to him. “I was milling flour for our next batch of pasta, you’re in luck,” he replied. “It could take some time, but if Rook is staying, I can make it fresh.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Rook hummed eagerly. That sharp smile ate at him.

His throat nearly shut. Lucanis rolled his neck, tied the canvas bag neatly before picking it up.He swallowed invisibly before he spoke, “I’ll be right back.”

When he returned from the pantry, he began the process. Rook had poured a glass of red wine for all three as he cracked eggs into a delicately made well of fresh flour at the counter. Clearly they knew where Lucanis was keeping the good bottles. They and Davrin had found a purple wax Sangioveze that he had just picked up the week before. He rolled his first sip along his tongue, relishing the taste. He knew exactly what to make that would pair well with this.

“You wouldn’t believe how many hauntings we got through today,” Rook said before taking a long drink. “Poor Davrin, how do you feel after that?”

The Warden chuckled, “Like I never have to step foot into that place ever again. I’ve seen enough weird shit for a lifetime. Would rather be trapped in a room full of darkspawn. At least I know what I’m up against.”

An egg for each person, seasoned with salt and olive oil. He whisked them while incorporating the flour. Slowly. This was a process he enjoyed. His hands, properly coated so it wouldn’t stick, kneaded the yellowish dough.

“So, apparently, it was dead Mourn Watch mage?”

“Eh, that happens. He’s actually a regular. Every few years he makes some noise. I think he likes the attention,” the young mage replied, swirling their glass. “The first time, I actually tried to talk him down. Ha, that went about as well as you’d think.”

Davrin laughed, “You’re soft, Rook.”

“Not anymore,” they shot back with a toothy grin. “I’m a pretty skillful mage. Killed plenty of Venatori by now.”

As the dough became a loose lump, Lucanis leaned his weight in on it. The heel of his palm pushed and his other hand pulled it back. His knuckles bore down on it, then the palm once more. Again, back and forth. A wonderful, familiar motion.

“One pleading look from Assan and you’re giving him whatever he wants,” Davrin countered, “Between you and Neve, I’m losing my authority. He’s going to start demanding gingerwort truffles every day.”

Rook smiled wide.“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re making him darkspawn dinner,” he scolded. The two threw their heads back and bellowed with laughter. Davrin knew how to make Rook do that.

Lucanis rolled the dough flat with a rolling pin. One of many items he brought to the Lighthouse with excited fervor. He adjusted his shoulders as he worked, shaking off whatever feeling was coming up.

“Next thing you know, they’re showing up with forks and bibs,” Ziya wheezed in between breaths.

Davrin threw back the rest of his wine with a satisfied sigh, “Not if I have any to do with it!”

The Warden poured his next glass. As if tracked on a string, Rook’s gaze turned in curiosity at Lucanis. He really wasn’t used to this kind of attention.

“Our Master Assassin,” they exclaimed as they moved to lean on the wall next to the counter where he was working. Their bright eyes flashed impishly at him. An easy smile spread across their visage. That wine worked quickly. “What’s prompted you to do all this?”

“You know why. It helps me focus,” Lucanis countered, looking at them sideways. “Recently, I haven’t been able to kill as many Venatori as I would like to.”

Now the dough was flat and smooth like skin. Lucanis laid flour over it before running a knife through it to create long, thin strips. It split apart cleanly.

The young mage sighed, clearly feeling a sting. Lucanis knew what words were about to leave their lips. “I was hoping you would re—”

More steps approaching the kitchen door. This time, accompanied with a metallic thunk with every other footfall. Neve, stack of papers tucked under her arm and a mug of coffee in hand. “Room for one more?”

Mierda.

“Welcome back, you two,” she said as she placed her things on the table on Davrin’s other side. “Are we bothering Lucanis tonight? Miffed I didn’t get an invitation.”

As soon as she sat down Davrin was already pouring a glass for her. His wrist was a little loose with the portion, Lucanis noticed. However, Neve didn’t seem to mind. She was watching this scene with a glint of curiosity and amusement in her eyes.

“I could hear you all from my room,” she explained as she looked at them all teasingly. “Was curious about what was so funny.”

“Our Master of Knives has been kind enough to feed two beggars who can’t boil water,” Davrin explained as he clapped Rook on the back and steered them back to the kitchen table.

“The water boils itself,” Lucanis sighed. The two elves laughed again.

“We’re unworthy!” Ziya cried blithely as they bowed in Lucanis’ direction, Davrin’s heavy hand nearly tilted them backwards. The Warden planted them firmly at their usual seat. “Kindly taking pity on unfortunates as ourselves.”

Neve chuckled as she leaned back in her chair totally entertained by their buffoonery. “Count me in. What’s on the midnight menu?”

Lucanis smiled despite himself. “Cacio e pepe. Usually pairs well with a light red,” he said as he turned to check the boiling pot on the wrought iron stove. Somehow, the Lighthouse always knew when he needed to get the job done.

Davrin and Rook looked at their glasses, then each other, then at the bottle they had eagerly popped open without a care to its taste. They were inconsolable, those two, fits of snickering between them. Chasing hauntings for two days could do that to someone, he considered silently as he watched them from his peripheral.

“Nice catch,” Rook laughed gingerly as they wiped tears from their eyes. “Emmrich would kill me for not knowing the differences between wines.”

“I could teach you,” Lucanis shrugged, “It’s important to taste their distinctions. So you know when your cup is poisoned.”

They hummed as their elbows propped themself up on the table. Wine glass caught dangling over the edge between their middle finger and thumb. “I'd love a private lesson.”

Those words snaked up Lucanis’ spine so quickly, he was barely able to brace himself from cutting a finger and bleeding all over the pasta. Mierda, he walked right into that one.

“I am…" Rook suddenly snapped to attention, apparently they surprised themself. Face tinging with red, turning nearly maroon. They cleared their throat, "...well, that would be agreeable.”

Rumbling chuckles from Davrin. Neve smirked crookedly into her own glass. The young mage seemed mildly panicked, but quickly recovered by pulling a deck of cards from their back pocket.

“Who’s up for a game of Wicked Grace?”

The other three collectively groaned. Lucanis knew better than to do that again. When he had first arrived at the Lighthouse, Rook had casually invited him, Neve, and Bellara to cards. Harding had excused herself with an incredulous look and that was his first hint. They had all had their fair share of wine by that point. When they finally got to playing, Lucanis knew the flick of a cheater’s hand when he saw one. Playing cards with Illario most of his life did that. He had grabbed Rook’s wrist without thinking, feeling the card cleverly hidden underneath. They beamed at him, unafraid of an assassin’s touch and grinning like a fool.

“C’mon, we’ve got enough people. Four’s a party.”

“No one wants to play with a cheat, Rook” Davrin said. “You’d have to prove you aren’t hiding any cards in your sleeve.” While they didn’t get a chance to rope Davrin into a game when he first arrived (due to the dragon attacks), Rook hadn’t forgotten their bizarre ritual.

They had their own personal deck, a hodgepodge of Tevinter and Nevarran cards. Imperium and mortalitasi iconography decorated different cards of different suits. It was hard to know what your hand was at first glance. Clearly, the deck was very old and torn from use. When the team found the downtime, however, Rook tried again. It seemed like that was the straw that broke the horse’s back. Harding took the deck, went up the kitchen stairs, and chucked the cards out into the fade. That got a great laugh out of Rook. The team thought that was the end of it.

Then somehow, days later, the deck mysteriously returned to Rook’s possession. They said it reappeared at their bedside table. Neve blamed the wisps. Bellara and Emmrich hypothesized that the Lighthouse created another, identical deck. Bellara was furiously writing down notes as soon as she learned what had happened. Lucanis would never forget that errant, sharp smile on their face as they strode into the kitchen that morning. The Lighthouse wanted them to suffer, he had mused at the time.

“And I will know if you do,” Lucanis added. He checked the pasta, steaming now in the roiling water. Grating the hard cheese was next. It had to be fine enough to incorporate in the skillet with the rest of the pasta water.

Neve finished her glass and was reaching for the wine bottle when she scoffed, "If only you were better at it."

"We're running out of drink. What I would kill to have some ale," Davrin said. "Rook, why don't you grab us another bottle?"

Lucanis silently laughed to himself; any excuse to get them not to play cards. Clever Warden.

"Fine, but don't complain if I pick a bad one, I just said I know nothing about wine," they called as they stood and made their way to the pantry.

"There aren't any bad ones," the assassin retorted, somewhat defensively.

“Lucanis, you better help them or they’ll pick a dessert wine,” Neve said, swirling her glass. She seemed to have given up on whatever reports she had been reading.

That got his attention. Not the port. Quickly, he took the boiling pasta off the iron stove and onto the counter. He didn’t want them to overcook. Wiping his hand on a dish towel and throwing it over his shoulder, Lucanis bee-lined to follow Rook into the pantry.

There they were, peering at the wine shelf where he had accumulated about two dozen bottles of wine, all different origins and organized according to their proper pairing. Enough for a couple weeks of meals. Neve was right. Rook was staring intently at a fat green bottle of port wine Lucanis was saving for his next dessert project. Delicate, gold-ringed fingers wrapped around the glass bottleneck with eagerness.

“Rook,” he said, grasping their hand with his. “Not that one.”

The drink had made their skin warm. Lucanis stilled, realizing his grip on them. The shape of their rings became almost unbearably apparent against his skin. A painfully long pause drifted between them.

“Oh?” They purred, “Time for my first lesson already?”

Rook made a sideways glance at him and grinned. Lavender eyes alight. Mierda. They released their fingers and he did the same. His palm felt like it was burning.

It was Lucanis’ turn to feel heat rising to his face. He groaned. His mouth was fighting a losing battle to a smirk, “No.”

Cackles echoed in his mind. The image of Spite’s grin flashed behind his eyes. At least someone was enjoying this.

He reached for another Sangioveze, just behind Rook. Lucanis became all too aware of the small of the tall elf’s back. Now everything felt too hot. Too close.

They returned to the dining room, Neve and Davrin thoughtfully pretended they weren’t trying to eavesdrop. Rook’s shamelessness made them seem unaware of the attention entirely. However, Lucanis caught that self satisfied smirk of theirs. As they sat next to Davrin again, the Warden patted their shoulder gently. Lucanis’ heart twinged, but his face remained placid.

Dinner went on without much happening after that. The cacio e pepe came out just delicious, maybe a tad too little black pepper. Lucanis’ colleagues seemed to enjoy it well enough. Davrin asked for seconds twice.

The two elves ended up sharing more stories from their harrowing adventures in the Necropolis. Rook was a little more enthusiastic about the howling, anguished spirits than their Warden friend. While Davrin paled at recounting a gutted, floating corpse with eight arms and the head of a bird, Rook brightened with fascination, detailing all the possibilities of its name and origins. Their comfort with spirits highlighted again.

They finished after the third bottle, at which point Rook and Davrin were very drunk. Lucanis did his best to ignore Spite doing his best to be an awful distraction, appearing at the corner of his vision with a taunting face or biting remark. For a good while he stood uncomfortably next to Rook’s chair. There were moments Lucanis suspected the mage felt the demon’s presence: a cocked-eyebrow between jokes. If they truly did, they paid him very little mind.

From time to time, Rook would get that soft look in their eyes as they spoke to him. Gentle gaze above that cutting smile. At this point he knew it well. It searched him. At times, he felt near naked under that look. When he met them in equal measure, he felt his core seize. Habit of training kept his face tranquil, but something deep stirred. He remembered; he had touched them. Again.

Neve, knowing when it was her time to bow out after two glasses, had left long before the rest called it a night. Lucanis, warmed from the wine, but still quite alert, had taken care of all the dishes as his companions milled about. He was already brewing a new pot of coffee, a supple dark roast. Surely is was nearing four in the morning.

Rook flopped onto the red couch at the far side of the kitchen, kicking off their boots with a sigh, “Don’t fall into the fade."

“Lucanis letting you sleep here?” the Warden asked as he sat on the arm. There was a slight slurring to his voice.

“I just don’t want the possibility of a...” Rook hiccuped, “...visit from the Dread Wolf while I’m sloshed. Hope that’s agreeable, Sir Crow?”

Lucanis sighed from his place at the counter, coffee cup in hand, “It’s fine.”

Davrin cast Lucanis a look that he had a difficult time understanding. That could have also been the wine making his face behave strangely. But something in it was a combination of suspicion and sympathy. Then, the Warden stumbled through the kitchen doors with a short nod, his steps echoing through the Lighthouse courtyard until they didn’t.

Rook was sleeping. Here. For a moment, he was rooted at the spot, staring at their curled form on the couch, turned away from him. Angular shoulders, long arms. The glint of gold adorned almost every limb. Cascading plum hair obscuring their face. The soft hum of their breath filled the room now that it was silent. His eyes memorized the rise and fall of their side. Silently, the assassin crossed to sit in one of the armchairs. He turned his cup in his hands, remarkably unsure of what to do next. So, he listened.

#rookanis #fanfic #fanfiction #dragon age fanfiction #pulling cords #rook ingellvar #lucanis dellamorte #ziya ingellvar #veilguard fanfiction #lucanis x rook #rook x lucanis

5 notes · View notes

cigarettesandinevitablebetrayal · 2 years ago

Text

Raine Callaghan doesn’t know what to make of Rebecca Sinclair most days. They had a good relationship once, but that was a long time ago. A death in the family will do that, he supposes.

Rated M for mature themes such as parental death, dysfunctional families, child neglect, implied violence, and minor mentions to the North Irish Troubles.

Other Tags: Kid Fic, Growing Up, Time Skips, Canon Divergence (Alternate Backstory), Tragedy, and Hopeful Ending.

Masterpost | AO3

Chapter 5: And Louder I'll Scream Back

Callaghan Family Home, Belfast - 1993

Ciaran crashes through puddles, pulling his jacket hood further down his face in a vain attempt to stay at least somewhat dry. It hadn't been raining at all when school had let out. It had even looked quite nice for a walk. Then the sky had opened up above him and now he's sure even the books in his backpack are soaked through. He swears as water splashes up his trouser legs and into his shoes, making his socks cold and soggy as they cling to his feet.

It wouldn't be so bad, Ciaran thinks, if all of his clothes weren't just a bit too small. Nothing to be done for it. He's been shooting up like a weed for a few years now and Bishop is at her wit's end trying to buy enough clothing to keep up with his terrible growth spurts. He hopes he's almost done. He's already taller than all of his friends and Bishop. Does anyone really need to be taller than five-foot-ten?

He slows his pace as he reaches the front door of their home. Fishing through his pockets, he finds his key and enters the mudroom as fast as he can. Water drips from his clothes as he stomps his feet against the mat by the door. Kicking off his trainers, he catches sight of a letter on the floor. Even without picking it up, he recognizes the handwriting and a smile breaks on his face. He scoops up Eoin's letter quickly.

He pauses as the letter’s presence reminds him of what's not there. Cracking the front door just a touch, he peers out onto the porch. No package. Perhaps Bishop picked up the box and didn't notice the envelope? Or perhaps the letter simply fell without her seeing.

"Aunt Bishop, I'm home!" He yells into the house as he steps out into the hall. He tears open the envelope, pulling lined paper from within. He scans over the first few lines, but quickly slips it back into the envelope. He'll read it later in his room when he has time to write a reply.

Ciaran looks up as he realizes he's heard no reply. "Aunt Bishop?" He calls again.

No answer. He drops his wet backpack on the sofa as he walks past it. No package wrapped in familiar shiny paper there, either. Ciaran comes to a stop as he reaches the dining room.

There are papers scattered across the wooden table, official looking documents and survey maps and photos and scraps of scratch paper. Bishop leans over them, eyes glued to whatever paper she's holding. There's something drawn in her expression, like when she and Rook played chess and he would play a strategy she wasn't familiar with. She doesn't look up when he walks in.

"Everything alright?" He scans over the papers again, his heart skipping as he catches sight of a familiar face in one of the photos.

Ciaran has never seen this face in person, or rather doesn't remember the times he has, but he'd know it anywhere. He recognizes the sharp smile and bright brown eyes, the messy brown curls pulled back from a freckle-covered face. Since Rook died, Bishop has brought out more photos of his mother around the house, but he's never seen this particular photo before. She has her sleeves rolled up to her elbows which shows off intricate geometric tattoos that seem to extend further up than he can see.

"Bishop?" He turns the photo his way, running a finger over i's worn edge. A vice grip wraps unwanted around his heart and he drags his eyes back up to his aunt.

Bishop finally looks up at him, blinking her eyes blearily at him as if having to focus back on the real world. There are dark circles under her eyes and worry lines etched into her forehead. She rubs her cheek as she puts the paper down, "What? Oh, no, this is just a project I've been working on?"

"Is this what's been keeping you out?" Ciaran hasn't mentioned it, but Bishop’s recent string of late nights and days away from the house make him worry. Tensions are running high again after the bombing on Shankill and every night she doesn't come home, Ciaran worries what could happen. "What even is all this?"

"This is what Rebecca is hiding," Bishop answers. "Or, at least, it's what I can find of it."

Ciaran frowns, a hundred questions swirling in his head, but then he catches sight of the glass on the table. The bottle next to it only has about a fifth of whiskey in it. "Have you been drinking again?"

Her dark eyes meet his, narrowing slightly. Her lips twist into a scowl. "Don't look at me like that, Knight."

"It's the middle of the day, Bishop," he snaps. "Jesus…" Ciaran rubs his palm across his face, taking a deep breath. Whatever harebrained nonsense she's pulled together, he has no patience for it. "Never mind. Have you seen a package for me?"

Bishop blinks at him owlishly. She looks him over like he's lost his mind. "A package?"

"Yeah, a package." Ciaran repeats. He studiously ignores the nonsense on the table. "Would have been wrapped in foil paper. Same one Rebecca sends every year."

"Are you asking after those damn boots again?" Bishop pushes her hair back from her face with a roll of her eyes. "I told you last week, she probably forgot about them."

Ciaran can feel the argument building like a storm rolling in on the horizon. He should pull back, go up to his room and play some music until they both calm down. Instead, he retorts. "Rebecca wouldn't forget to send them."

Bishop’s lips twist angrily and Ciaran can feel the blow coming before she speaks. "Why do you keep defending her? She barely comes to see you anymore."

Ciaran flinches. He takes a deep breath, collecting his words, making sure to soften his tone. "I'm not having this discussion while you're drunk."

Bishop snorts. "You're not even going to ask what I've found, are you?"

"No, I'm not," Ciaran snaps. "I'm not entertaining your fucking conspiracies. I've heard them all before and they're all fucking mental." He gestures wide at the table, the words coming out almost snarling through his lips. "Da and Rebecca weren't keeping secrets from us, they just worked for the government. They buried him in Wayhaven because it was convenient. Nothing happened to Siobhan, she left because she didn't want to be here anymore."

This time, Bishop flinches. "Siobhan didn't leave you, Knight, she loved you." Her voice is quiet, but it builds as the grief turns to anger. "She was so excited to have you, she wouldn't have just left. We were best friends. I would have known if she was unhappy."

"Why would Da have lied about that?" Ciaran demands. He should stop shouting, should take a step back and give up on the conversation, but this fight has been brewing for too long. "You were the one who told me you and Da never lied to each other."

"He never did before," Bishop shouts back. "Not until he brought that bitch home!"

"You never liked Rebecca," he shoots back. His tone turns desperate, willing Bishop to just drop it. Why do they have to keep having this fight? "And that's fine. You didn't have to, but this - this is unhealthy." He sighs, knowing what he's going to say next is not what she's going to want to hear. "I think you should talk to someone."

"Talk to someone? I'm trying to talk to you." Bishop stumbles back a step, her head shaking slowly as realization dawns on her face. She looks at him with watery eyes and Ciaran feels suddenly as if he's driven the kitchen knife between her ribs. "You think I'm crazy," she whispers, the betrayal drawing her features tight.

He takes a step towards her, his hand reaching out, but she steps back immediately, drawing herself away from him. It takes all of Ciaran's strength to keep his voice from wavering. "I think Da's death was very sudden and neither of us let the other grieve."

Bishop stares at him sadly before she shakes her head with a scoff. When she meets his gaze again, she's collected herself into composed incredulity. She starts picking papers off the table, piling them together in her hands, before shoving fistfuls of them into a bag on the chair.

"Bishop?" Ciaran moves to touch her arm, but she smacks his hand away. "Come on. Talk to me, please."

Bishop throws the bag over her shoulder before leaning up until she's mere inches from his face. He can smell the whiskey on her. "Rebecca and Rook were hiding something. I'm not stupid." She pushes past him, calling out. "And I'm not fucking crazy, either."

Ciaran swallows heavily, but doesn't follow her. "Where are you going?"

The only answer is the resounding slam of the front door. Ciaran flinches hard at the sound. He collapses into the chair at the table, giving the leftover papers a despairing glance before he buries his face in his hands. Hopefully he can clear all this up when Bishop gets back.

#scarlet welly boots #cigs writes #twc fic #twc rebecca #twc detective #fic: raine callaghan

0 notes

heyitmelexie · 4 years ago

Text

Falling In Love

Din Djarin x riduur!F!Reader

Word count: 3444 Warnings: mention of wounds and blood Rating: Teen and up

A/N: Day 9 of the December Writing Challenge by @honeymandos! ❤️

This was also my first time ever writing for Din!

I know it’s late but I’m currently pretty occupied with uni etc. Hope you enjoy anyway!! ❤️

-------------------------------------------------

The sweet smell of Bantha-butter pancakes tickles your nose and pulls you from your peaceful slumber.

As you open your eyes you see soft beams of sunshine creep through the window, illuminating your exposed legs and bathing them in warmth.

You smile and stretch, hearing the sizzling noise of the pancakes coming from the kitchen, accompanied by soft talking, gentle coos and occasionally one or the other clank.

The door is slightly ajar, but you can still see the domestic scene playing in the other room.

Din, in only his pants and with his hair still mussed, stands with his broad back turned to you. He’s making breakfast while quietly talking to your little green son, who sits on the counter right next to him. You see his ears occasionally perk up, followed by coos and little giggles, making you smile.

“Look, now you flip it. Just like this” you hear Din say, before (you assume) he tries to flip it with the pan. You expect to hear the loud sizzling again, indicating that the uncooked side of the pancake landed safely back in the pan. Instead, you hear a dull splash, like a wet fish falling onto tiles, followed by strings of curses coming from Din and a loud, hearty laugh from that little womp rat.

You laugh softly at that, getting out of bed to make your way into the kitchen.

Upon hearing your laugh coming from behind him, Din turns and looks at you, a sheepish smile playing on his flustered face.

“I hope I didn’t wake you, cyare” he says before quickly cleaning up the mess he made.

“Not really. I woke up from the smell of my favourite breakfast” you hum, before kissing your son’s wrinkly little head. He coos happily and then stretches out his arms to make grabby hands at you. You chuckle softly and then proceed to pick him up. He immediately snuggles against you, one of his little claws clutching onto your shirt.

Din smiles, before gently kissing your lips and then continuing to make the breakfast.

You take the time to go outside into your little garden with the child in your arms.

The sun immediately engulfs you in its warm light and you lay down in the soft grass between the flower beds. The little one moves to get comfortable on top of you, snuggling into your chest and cooing contently.

You smile at him and gently caress his big ears.

Din and you had built this little hut on Naboo together just about a year ago, finally deciding to partially settle down and have a somewhat quiet life. He would occasionally still go on a few hunts to get some credits for the three of you while you would stay home with the child. He would always make sure to not stay away for too long. Din had gotten really used to this simple life with you.

As you now lay there in the grass, admiring yours and Din’s handiwork, you think back to how you two met.

And what had made you realize that you had deeply fallen for this beskar-clad warrior (and honestly sometimes tin can dumb bitch of a man).

You grew up in a very small village that was hidden in the lush forests of Naboo. People there were kind and caring, always helping each other and even going so far as helping out strangers that desperately needed the help.

And that’s what had led to meeting him.

You were some sort of healer for the people of your village. Mixing concoctions, ointments, bacta gels, etc. Taking care of wounded and ill people. They trusted you with their lives and that had filled you with a great sense of pride.

One day, while you were collecting herbs in your little garden, you could hear a loud commotion coming from the marketplace. The noise steadily grew louder until five people stormed in, carrying a person covered head to toe in fabrics and metal, that was bleeding profusely from a deep wound in their lower abdomen. A pool of blood was very quickly forming on the floor and then on the bed once they put the person on it.

You dropped everything you held and rushed inside, immediately starting to cut off the fabric from around the wound to get better access to it, not even thinking about removing the armour and pants. You knew what that would mean.

You had heard about Mandalorians before. Strangers come and go; they spend most of their time at the small cantina. Many of them weren’t very social and would mostly just ignore the questions they were asked. But others, they would talk and then wouldn’t stop, much to the delight of the folks here.

That’s how one day you met a woman called Rook Cava.

She was unlike any other person you had ever met before. Just like this wounded person, she was covered in fabrics and metal armour, from head to toe. The specially shaped breast plate was the only certain physical indication for you that assured you she was a woman. The armour had been painted a very deep purple, the paint was already chipping away here and there. On the helmet, around the visor, there were golden, intricate symbols. She was mysterious and, even though you had no idea what she looked like, you thought she was breathtakingly beautiful.

She emitted such strength and power. The armour made her look bulky, but the fabric underneath laid snug against her skin and you saw her biceps. She wasn’t bulky, no, she was strong and muscular. You had never seen a woman like her before. She rendered you speechless and at the same time there were so many questions you wanted to ask her. But you didn’t want to overwhelm her, so you kept these questions to yourself.

So instead, you let her rest for a bit, she had obviously been travelling for a long time before taking a break on Naboo.

Rook was a step ahead of you though because the next morning she knocked at your door. She explained that she needed a few ointments and new bacta gel for the next few weeks of her travels and that everyone had told her to go seek you out for that.

Without hesitation you had let her in, offering her a seat and something to drink which she politely declined.

You sat in comfortable silence for a bit, while you collected the things she needed and also freshly mixed some of them so she could take a bigger amount with her.

Rook noticed that you held back your questions, always glancing at her, at her armour. She smiled under the helmet, amused and also astonished that you hadn’t drowned her in your questions yet.

She slightly shook her head in amusement and leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms behind her head.

“What do you wanna know?”

Your head snaps up to look at her, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Her question had caught you off guard and she had laughed at your shocked reaction, heat creeping to your cheeks in embarrassment.

“It’s fine. I know I’m not a very common sight. Go ahead, ask your questions” she said, her voice warm and friendly. The complete opposite from her fierce appearance.

“Uhmm… what exactly are you?” ‘What exactly are you?!’ You wanted to slap yourself across the face for such a stupid question. But Rook didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m a Mandalorian. Have you ever heard of those?” You shook your head no at that and she nodded, showing you that she understood.

“To be clear, a Mandalorian is not a race. It’s a creed. You can be born by Mandalorian parents and grow up to become one yourself, or you could be a foundling. Those are children who lose their families at a very young age. They can be taken in by Mandalorians so they have a home and protection. They will grow up and become warriors as well, they will swear the oath. They will live their lives in anonymity, protecting their creed.”

You let that sink in and crush the herbs in your little bowl. Your eyebrows furrow and you take in her armour again.

“Anonymity… What exactly do you mean by that? I mean, I know your name. So, that isn’t very… anonym, is it?” She smiles, but you can’t see it.

“I decided to go by my name because I was just tired of everyone calling me Mando. I hated it. Some of my kind decide to keep their names to themselves, only revealing them to their loved ones and children. Others, like me, are okay with sharing that information. And, by the way, do people check if the name is real anyway?” You laugh at that. She was right. She could tell everyone a made-up name and they would believe it. Nobody checks.

“But, unless you are the wife of a Mandalorian, you will never be able to put a face to that name. We don’t reveal our faces to anyone but our families. If a Mandalorian takes off the helmet in front of another living thing, the Creed would be soiled, the oath you swore - broken. And we are nothing without our Creed. It’s our religion, it’s sacred, holy. It’s what makes us who we are. And we will kill anyone who tries to take that from us.”

“Is that why you declined the water? And why you asked for the food to be brought to your room last night, so you wouldn’t have to eat in the cantina? Because you can’t take off your helmet?”

She just nodded and you hummed in response, thinking about your next question.

“What happens when you get hurt and someone has to access, let’s say, your thigh. Do you just have to risk dying or are others allowed to see other parts of your body?”

She seemed to think about that for a moment, trying to come up with a good answer.

“Technically we aren’t allowed to show any part of our body to anyone. But wounds are, let’s say, a little loophole. If the wound is dangerous and could possibly kill me, then we can let them assess it. Let’s take your example.” She taps one of her thigh plates.

“If I had an awful wound on my thigh that I couldn’t take care of alone and would need help with, I can take off my thigh plate. You can’t take off my pants but you can cut a hole into the fabric so you can access the wound properly. You couldn’t see much of my skin. My Creed would be intact and you can save my life.” A loophole.

This brings you back to your current situation.

“You need to take off his armour! And his clothes! How can you dress his wound like that?” one of the villagers says, not understanding why you just cut a whole into that person’s pants.

You assumed it was a man, his shoulders seemed to be too broad for a woman and his chest plate was quite flat.

“I can take care of his wound like that just fine” you say, telling them what you needed in order to close and disinfect the wound.

It took you a bit over an hour until you had finally finished stitching it up and wrapping gauze around his thigh.

He still wouldn’t move; the blood loss must have weakened him. You had checked his pulse just to be sure he was still alive and then bundled him up into blankets

Just when you finished cleaning the blood stains and tidying the room, he jolted awake, startling you.

He quickly scanned the room before pulling the blankets off of him and attempting to stand up. You saw his knees buckle slightly and rushed over to steady him, carefully pushing him back onto the bed.

“You need to lie down and rest for a while. You lost a lot of blood” you told him, getting him a glass of water and digging out a straw from your drawers.

You held the glass out for him to take but his visor was focused on your face.

“Who are you? Where am I?” His rough and rather deep voice sent a shiver down your smile that you tried to suppress. You just smiled and told him your name, gently pushing the glass into his hand but he didn’t drink yet, still looking at you.

“You’re on Naboo. A few hours ago you were brought to me because you had a very nasty wound on your abdomen, bleeding like mad. I took care of it, but you need to rest or the stitches will break open again and you’ll risk an infection. And you need to drink” you say, pushing the glass a bit closer towards his face.

When you turn around to put the trash away, he tucks the straw under his helmet and quickly empties the glass. He’s relieved to notice that he immediately feels a bit less lightheaded and puts the glass on the little table before lying back down. For some odd reason he feels like he can trust you.

“I didn’t take off your armour or your clothes. And especially not your helmet, so don’t worry. I must admit though that I put my hand under your helmet as best as I could to see if there would be any blood. But I looked away while I did that, I promise. I know it’s forbidden” you turned back to him, a gentle smile on your face.

“I… Okay. Thank you.”

You felt relief wash over you, glad you hadn’t somehow done anything wrong or harmful, internally thanking the Force for sending Rook your way those few years ago.

The Mandalorian spent about a week at your house, resting and healing.

You had learned that he was hunting a bounty and somehow they had managed to ambush him. The wound on his leg was caused by a warspear the bounty had rammed into his thigh in a moment of inadvertence.

Din had to admit to himself that he… liked you. You were kind and caring. You weren’t one of those people that would ask him when the last time was he took off the helmet or if he’d ever taken it off in front of someone else. None of your questions or conversations were focused on his appearance or his life, which he was very grateful for. He trusted you, but he didn’t want to share such private information with someone he didn’t know well enough.

You simply took care of his wound, made him drink enough water and you would leave him alone whenever he needed to eat.

Not even the conversations with you felt awkward.

You willingly told him about your upbringing, what you had done so far in your life and you also told him about your encounter with Rook Cava.

He knew that he was lucky you had this knowledge of his Creed. What if you hadn’t known it and would have taken off his helmet? He figured that he must have killed the whole village then in order to somehow keep his Creed intact… That thought sends a shiver through his body, once again he felt lucky that he ended up in your care.

When he felt stronger and healthier again, ready to leave Naboo behind, the thought of you sitting in his co-pilot chair flashes through his mind.

He didn’t want to leave you. He didn’t know why, but he wanted you to come with him and stay by his side.

‘I just need someone with her skills’ is what he tells himself.

And when he asked you to come with him, he was surprised at how quickly you said yes, agreeing to leave your home behind to travel through the galaxy with him.

As much as you loved the village, you really wanted to see other parts of the galaxy. So you quickly said your goodbyes and packed your things. You were excited to start this new chapter.

You ended up staying and travelling with him for the following 6 years, before you settled down last year.

During this time, your little green rascal became a part of your family, making you a clan of three. That filled Din with great pride and whenever he looked at his little clan, he felt happy and warm. You two were his entire galaxy and he would make sure that nothing ever happened to you.

One evening, you two had been ‘dating’ for about two years now, the kid was sleeping in his pram and you sat on his lap in the pilot chair, his arms around you. You had asked him a question that had floated through your mind for quite a while.

“When did you know you loved me?” You stared out of the windows, the stars just streaks of light during hyperspace. Din stopped caressing your back for a moment and seemed to think about this.

“Pretty sure it was the first time you smiled at me” he said, making you laugh softly and swat his chest.

“Sure thing, shiny” you giggled, making him smile at you under the helmet.

He held you closer to him and leaned his helmet against your shoulder.

“I think it was the moment I realized I couldn’t leave Naboo without you” he said, continuing to caress your back. “That whole week, you took great care of me and I’ve never felt this comfortable around anyone outside of my tribe before. For whatever reason I trusted you right from the beginning. That first smile you flashed me, if I didn’t already sit I would have probably had to sit down. I never felt like this before I met you. Your presence was calming and kind of made me giddy. I don’t know how to describe it…” You smiled and pressed a kiss to the side of his helmet.

“Like butterflies fluttering inside you? The constant urge to smile?” He thought about it for a moment and then nodded. Grateful for his helmet covering his face because he was sure it was just as red as a tomato.

“The thought of leaving without you, it… it kind of hurt. I was imagining you sitting in my co-pilot chair while I would fly. I even dreamed about you… Back then, I didn’t know I was in love with you. I had never loved anyone this way before. You changed my whole life. To the better. I thought I would die alone. No family, no friends, nothing. But then you strut into my life with that stupid little smile of yours and you gave me hope.”

Your chest swells with pride at his confession, warmth spreading throughout your whole body.

You gave him hope. Home. A family, even before this little womp rat waddled into your life. You made the love of your life believe in a happy ending for himself and that was more than you could ever ask for.

“But what about you, cyar’ika? When did you know you loved me?” he asked, while gently putting a hand on your thigh.

“I think it was the first time I saw you straddle that speederbike back on Tatooine. That was pretty hot.”

He laughed at that, gently squeezing your bum and tutted.

“You are unbelievable.”

You didn’t realize you fell asleep again until a gentle hand shakes you awake. Your eyes flutter open and you look right into the face of your riduur. He smiles at you and kisses your nose, making you giggle before you gently kiss him.

After a moment he slowly breaks the kiss and sits next to you in the grass, a big plate full of pancakes in front of him and a bottle of chee-chee berry syrup in his hand.

Before you can sit up, the kid scrambles off your chest and goes to launch himself at the plate of pancakes, but Din is quicker. He scoops him into his arms and then puts him into his lap.

“They’re for all of us, ad’ika” he softly tuts, before taking a pancake and slowly tearing it into little pieces to feed him.

You smile and sit up, pressing a kiss to your riduur’s cheek and one to your son’s head.

The Force had blessed you with such a beautiful little family. And soon there would be another little one moving and kicking inside of you. But you had yet to tell your lover.

--------------------------------

@absurdthirst @dindjarindiaries @tangledlove27

#Din Djarin #Din Djarin x Reader #The Mandalorian #The Mandalorian x Reader #Pedro Pascal

165 notes · View notes

nate-the-ok · 6 years ago

Text

Sugar Napkins Glass

One of my larger projects, written in a particular mood, then I got out of the mood. Lost interest. Its a time investment, fair warning

Sugar, Napkins, Glass: Chapter 1

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The things sea air does to cream cheese.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. (Three more furious scraping sessions)

It was late evening on the isles of Costa Marco, and Greg Sattle was deeply contemplating how drowning actually felt as he psychologically held his nose and cleaned the day`s cream cheese stains from the floors of his seaside café, The Port Side. He certaintly never imagined himself as the owner of some cream-colored scene out of a Martha Stewart Magazine, but crazier things have been done for love. Well perhaps not, Greg thought to himself. Ships were launched. Hundreds, perhaps thousands have died. But no one surely would subject themselves to ten years of imprisonment in a coffee shop. Her name, as apt as names go, has changed over the years. First, it was Elizabeth. Then, it was Liz. Then it was Ellie. After that it was Mom. Now its…well there are a plethora of profanities on Costa Marco relating to nagging old sea hags.

As the sun set over the ocean waves, bubbling and rippling the light from a distance, inducing a trance-like state for all of the barely clothed onlookers, Greg scanned the beaches, reigning down his mighty judgement upon all of god`s creation.

“Perverts. Sicophants. Mankind is a disgusting thing. All of these people, living artificial lives in artificial clothes, with artificial personalities, having sex with each other and drinking and lazing about. The fat jiggling bipeds live meaningless lives, consuming and consuming and consuming. A colony of walruses lives with more honor”

While deep in his sociopathic rants, Greg`s only son and heir to his legacy, Samuel, sauntered over to his father.

“Hey uhh, dad”

Greg hated his son. He was positive that he was the dumbest person on the entire island. No, the entire planet. It wasn`t even that that bothered him. It was his stupid, rage inducing manner of speech. It was a cross between the calm, swaying way of the islanders, and a lifetime of listening to the worst music god ever created. It was like listening to a four year old whine about having wet himself for 23 years. There were many occasions where Greg would chuckle to himself as Sam stubbed his toe on a door, or got beat up by a gang of street thugs. Ah the glories of cosmic justice he thought to himself. Now he approaches, likely to ask for something, as all weak willed individuals do on a regular basis.

“Yes Sam?” Greg said with obvious disdain, mocking Sam`s imperceptiveness, and crying on the inside that his son would always be, that stupid.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to loan me like uh…fifty bucks?”

Another thing that bothered Greg about Sam. He had zero charisma. He came off as needy and useless as he actually was. The only job he could ever get, was washing dishes at the cafe, which somehow, he still showed up late for. You couldn`t send him to military school to straighten him out, because they`d probably kill him for being such an annoying little shit, and say it was an accident. It was that part, that he regretted that his son would die, that really bothered Greg. Why god? Why other than by blood relations should I care about this…

“What exactly for?” Greg retorted

“Um…Im taking a girl on a date and I uh…need some spending money”

It was here that Greg paused. Surely, with this small investment of mere material gains, perhaps this will finally change sam`s silly ways. Hopefully he falls in love with this girl, and eventually she breaks his heart, that always toughens up a man in the end. Good god was sam a virgin? It`s a distinct possibility, but how could he know? Sam never confided in Greg. Ever. What the hell. Maybe it`s worth a shot.

“Sure, here…consider it a bonus…actually it`s not a bonus you`re a terrible worker and if you weren`t my son i`d fire you”

“Thanks dad!” Sam replied with renewed elation, as he scurried out the door, hopping into the old convertible Greg had gave him for his nineteenth birthday. Another failed attempt at manning him up.

“Maybe im just a shitty parent” Greg said out loud to himself.

Maybe he`s a lot of shitty things. However, that`s not nearly the most important part of this story.

“Oh a whisky oh a danny, when will the whisky run dry?” Bellowed each member of the small crew. Caribbean lobsters were rare, but in recent years, their populations blossomed, for almost unfathomable reasons. Regardless, dozens of fishing companies cropped up around Costa Marco, looking to cash in on a commoditiy, which pound for pound, was more valuable than gold. Of this small crew of the “Sandy Boot”, there was Rook, the boats` captain. He was a truck driver, for more years than he cared to remember, or forget for that matter. When the sea called to him, he remembered childhood stories his grandmother told him, of sailors and pirates, of heroes, and most importantly, drunks. Those decades of sitting in the cab of a truck, passing by non-descript highway rest stops and meaningless landmarks gave him a hunger for a real culture, and companionship. Sure there was the occasional bar-room hookup, as many as a guy as old and as fat as him could get but…he wanted a friend. More than anything.

Rook did the song justice, and drained the last swig of whisky from the clear glass bottle. Happily giggling as he spun the thin aluminum wheel around in the cabin making a course for home, while the other members of the crew scoffed in sarcastic disappointment. The small lobster boat only cost the crew a collective fifteen grand to purchase and insure, but had already made them incredible returns. None felt the weight of that more than Trip, the crew`s most experienced fisherman, but also the poorest. You see, Trip was a local to Costa Marco. His ancestors were slaves, and each preceding generation were slaves. First to white men, then to oppressive governments, then to drugs, and finally, to the sea. Many of the ethnic locals to Costa Marco are fishermen. But not all of them were ever good fishermen. All of them, save for Trip. To anybody else, he was just another kid who knocked some poor girl up, and ruined the rest of his life, trying to take care of a kid. To Trip and Louisa, they were in paradise. Sure they lived in a small apartment by the docks. Sure they didn`t own a car, or even have a checking account. What they did have however, was the kind of love that we all refuse to believe is real, and a beautiful baby boy to match. Their life went as followed. Trip would get up early in the morning, and join the rest of the crew on the boat to fish. Louise would wake with the sunrise and feed their child, sipping tea and reading books, gossiping with her neighbors on the beach behind their home. As the sun went down, she would build a fire, and cook a meal of chopped fish and island fruits. When Trip returned, he would walk onto the beach, lay on the sand next to his wife, take his son in his arms, and they would laugh until the fire left their minds, and fell to embers. When the clock struck ten, the three of them would settle down to bed, and the process would begin again. I`d wager that at the time, since Trip had finally been able to bring in good money, they were the happiest people alive.

As that rusty old boat pulled into the docks, and Trip called to Louise, Margo was tying off ropes, and looking over cages that had been damaged, eager to repair them. She was a kind of inquisitive, thoughtful human being that had been completely ensnared by the mere concept of rope in general. She could not explain just how-hold on a second, a woman? On a boat? Believe it or not, yes. A woman on a boat. Perhaps it was because Rook`s guilty pleasure was staring at her ass when she pulled a cage up from the sea. Perhaps it was the fact that on Costa Marco, everyone was too laid back to care at all. In reality, it was the mutual understanding between workers, that if you wanted the money, you worked hard for it, and you weren`t a total bitch, then you could fish like anyone else. It was that kind of atmosphere that Margo really craved. The kind of togetherness and happiness that was alive in the isles of Costa Marco. She could walk the streets on a Friday night, and join any party she wanted. Smile with whoever she wanted, laugh with whoever she wanted, and drink with whoever she wanted. It was her other craving though, that drove her to the fishing industry, and to the seclusion of the house she was able to purchase, just outside of town.

Cinnitar. A strange name for an incredibly popular opioid. It`s popularity wasn`t in it`s nature or it`s flawless marketing. It`s popularity was based on it`s safety. Margo would walk home from the boat after Rook distributed the previous day`s pay, spend a third of it on Cinnitar, and crash at her place, unwinding slowly into a peaceful, yet dreamless sleep. The gimmick associated to Cinnitar was that no matter how much of it you took, you couldn`t die, and there were virtually no side effects. While initially created to humanely kill family pets, when the formula was released to the general public, crafty chemists soon realized the drug`s massive potential. Margo had a massive amount of reasons to take the drug, but only one that she really couldn`t get out of her head. Her Abortion. Breaking up with Grant. She wasn`t supposed to feel guilty. It was the right thing to do. She was taking control of her body, and her life. Where did that ever get her? Where could it have gone? These kinds of questions only frightened her more when she knew Trip`s story, and watched his family eat dinner on the beach a hundred times. She wanted that, more than anything she wanted that, but she made that choice a thousand years and a thousand miles ago, and there was no way to go back. So it was here, that she would lay back on the hammock, ladle some Cinnitar into her arm, and imagine she made the choice she wanted, maybe even the right choice.

Suddenly, the newest member of the crew, Spencer, was knocking at her door. Margo couldn`t even stand to respond, and hoped he would just go away. She only ever invited him over along with the whole crew one time, as a housewarming party, but besides that, she had been a hermit. Spencer though, was persistent, knocking away like an idiot, because he saw her going in there…which yes, means that he followed her.

“Oh well, I guess she was just tired from fishing today. It was pretty hot out” he sighed to himself.

Margo relaxed back into her hammock. She liked Spencer. As far as guys went on all the islands, he was pretty cute. But it had only been…two years? Since she up and left her home in Georgia to find her way in the carribean, just to throw herself at the map and see where she could stick. It had been a long time, she thought. Maybe too long. Maybe she should give Spencer a shot, she thought, but before she could explore that line of reasoning, another wave came over her, and she was further back in that hammock than ever before, further back in her past and her guilt.

Walking home at night on Costa Marco is a very surreal experience. There are Boas hanging in the trees, pigs and dogs scurrying about, and when you hit the city, it`s a complete paradigm shift. There are vibrantly dressed locals and self-proclaimed locals dancing and drinking and laughing, jabbering and swooning to the hastily strummed guitars and battered drums. When Spencer left that small but happy place in the world, he turned down the many streets until he reached his own little cobblestone corner. Really a treasure of an abode, an old colonial townhouse, shoulder to shoulder with the infinite, but not quite well laid out rows of the other townhouses. He turned the old iron key, creaking open the heavy wooden door, into his own little grain scented shelter. Throwing wood into the fireplace, and firing up his laptop, he began to peruse his greatest passion… bread. Artisan, hand crafted, wood baked, the boy was obsessed. You see, Costa Marco was surprisingly devoid of this kind of bread industry. No dish, local or otherwise served or prepared on the islands required it, in fact, one would be looked upon with a small amount of disdain if seen eating a sandwich. This kind of atmosphere suffocated Spencer. He wanted to share his passion for bread with everyone he knew, by opening his own bakery. You could imagine by this description, that Spencer was a simple kind of guy, but in a magnificently pleasant kind of way. Spencer had spent most of his life travelling, as his father and mother were both in the navy, which meant that for the most part, spencer grew up on naval bases and with other navy kids. They all wanted to follow right in line with their parents, as disciplined and honorable scholars, pilots, or sailors. Spencer wanted none of that. All he wanted, was his bakery. It is hard to determine when, where or how he became obsessed with bread, or why frankly anyone cares, but all this interest is a testament to, is the kind of purity of heart Spencer possessed.

“Just a few more weeks” Spencer muttered to himself with a smile,

“And they`ll all see”…He trailed off, sensing he was tired, and rising to his bedroom. With each thunk of the heavy wooden steps he thought of Margo. How pretty she was. How her hair glistened in the midday sun. How the waters rolled off her skin. Yes, this is love, he thought.

The crew of the sandy boot were a lively bunch. The money was good, but what would it mean if they couldn`t buy paradise in…paradise. Poor old Greg was no exception. As he forked the thin steel key out of the decrepid lock of the café, and wandered over to his old Toyota truck, he began for the first time in his life, to seriously examine the choices he had made. For an inimaginable amount of time, Greg was locked in his relationship with Liz. Funny. He hadn`t even called her that in his thoughts in years. He could sense it. Just like how he sensed some asshole slowly crawling up his tail light on the old highway.

“Why I oughta” Greg snarled to himself, well aware that he only said that due to the fact thousands of other faces on the televisions did before him,

What he “oughta” do became less and less clear. His stream of consciousness was inundated with images of graphic, brutal violences he would inflict on the morally devoid creature that parasitically perched itself on his mechanical posterior. While making a curve on the old road, he caught a good glimpse of the driver in his rear-view mirror. It was just some...average young woman. Really nothing of great stereotypical or demonstrative worth. Suddenly, a wave of sympathy overcame Greg. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Maybe she was just angry about something. Maybe he had tailgaited her some time ago, and this was her form of revenge. Maybe, and entirely possibly, she was thinking the very same thoughts he was in his car, driving home late at night. Wondering about all the things he had done, the bills he had to pay, or the big decisions he would have to make. And a big decision, he certaintly did have to make. And it would pertain to whether or not he would stay with Liz.

It wasn`t like it was rocket science. Greg wasn`t always this spiteful, this mean, or even this domecticated. Liz hated camping. Before he met her, he could barely stay out of the woods.

“Yeah, Camping. Another thing to look foreward to when she`s out of the picture” Greg said aloud to himself, in rhythm with the soft country music on the radio.

“And that stupid kid of ours. He can be HER problem”. His voice began to rise with elation, as if the lightball was slowly coming on in his head.

“And I can finally smoke a cigar, inside or out…Hell ill be sure to ash`em right in the carpets”. The rhythm was infecting his reasoning, a little song being invented as he talked more and more.

“Oh yeah you bet it baaabay, that I`ll be smokin` up the town…do do do, pah do do pah pah… Oh yeah won`t be a clean carpet arooooooouuund” He laughed and tapped on his wheel as he sang his little song, all the way up his driveway.

Greg didn`t even bother to go in the house anymore. The ol` salty sea skank (his favourite colloquialism), would always be there to ask him how much money he made at the café that day.

“It was your idea bitch, and you`d know how much we were making if you ever left the house”

Greg pondered that hypothetical strategy in an argument as he walked into the shed, and flicked then lights on. Upon the table, lay his only true love. His beautiful bearded lizard, which he named Tequila. Greg…Greg was the kind of guy who loved to watch things. To be in control. There was nothing Greg loved more than to feed Tequila, in the morning before he went to work, and at night when he came home. Despite the fact that all the simple lizard ever gave him was the occaisional eyeball lick, or even a rare nibble on his fingers, Greg interpreted that as true affection.

“Oh little Tequila, you look so hungry!” Greg said, opening the cabinet above the lizard`s massive tank, and pulling out a small colony of grasshoppers.

Greg thought for a moment as he fauned over his pet, and smirked when he said, “So hungry that these little sons of bitches…might not be enough”

Greg put the grasshoppers back in the cabinet, and pulled another tank up from the ground across the floor. Within, rested half a dozen garter snakes, just now becoming startled at being lifted on the table.

Then, with the methodical preparation of a serial killer, Greg donned a leather apron and a pair of leather gloves, grabbing the fattest snake from the tank, and sealing the rest away. Greg took time to examine the creature, ensuring that it wouldn`t be strong enough to possibly hurt cute little Tequila. Of course none of those snakes stood a chance, but even a scratch on one of his stubby little legs would deeply disturb Greg. He gingerly placed the snake in the opposite end of Tequila`s tank, pulled up a chair, cracked a beer, and just watched.

Tequila was quick to take notice. It wasn`t very often that he had roomates. The new company was very exciting, but quite strange. Like an innocent, scaley puppy, tequila plodded off of his log, and towards this new arrival.

“Hold on a moment” Tequila thought to himself, slowing his pace as he analyzed the scent of the creature. He approached with caution…and a feeling…came over him…

Within a flash, bits and pieces of his new friend were strewn throughout the sand, a chunk of it`s torso sliding down his gullet.

“No…Not Again!”

Greg was sufficiently appeased by this display, and took the time to clean the cage while Tequila was occupied with his food, and changed his water.

“Isn`t it maaaaagic” Greg sang to himself, as he closed down the shed, and turned off all the lights, only dimming Tequila`s light in his tank.

“He gets scared of the dark…musn`t do that to him” He muttered, having thought about it and said that phrase a thousand times by now, it had become more of a routinely incensed nervous tick, for now Greg would have to actually go inside his house, and face his wife, which especially as of late, had become thornier than Tequila. Yes, thornier. Nothing else… weirdo.

Greg walked up to the bug screened back door, and as he climbed the second of the three steps, the light above the door came on, which meant that Liz was fast approaching, likely having seen Greg leave the shed. He opened the door, with her standing in front of him, crossing her arms and staring at him with pursed lips. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Never seemed to like existing in a state of calm or contentment. As far as Greg knew, she loved to be miserable and combative.

Greg wasn`t really in the mood for one of her fits. He knew how the argument would go. He knew exactly what she would nag him about. The Café isn`t making enough money, the house needs renovating, you need to spend more time with sam, you need to work out. It was the last part that bothered Greg the most. His physique had never been exemplary, he knew this, and he thought she knew this. Where did this desire for a six pack and biceps appear? When she started to have to shimmy through the closet door sideways?

After a single, tense moment, Greg simply put his keys on the hook beside the door, and walked on by. Sure it required one awkward shove, and really did nothing to appease Liz, but what was the point? All she wanted to do was argue till the sun came up.

He casually walked over to the kitchen and pulled some raw fish he had bought from the market two days earlier, prepared a skillet, and began to sear it on the electric oven, not expressing a single emotion aside from blank disdain as she walked in, still pouting about…well he didn`t even bother to find out.

He kept standing over that fish, casually turning from side to side as he grabbed various spices off the racks beside the stove. Ultimately, he found her performance entertaining and predictable. She had done this a thousand times. She would continue to do this a thousand times. It had been years since he stopped wondering what he could do, what he could say so she would finally hug him after a long day of work…again Greg felt regret.

“How terribly attached to a terrible woman have I become? I would be so much happier if I just…left. But I can`t…How fickle the heart is”

He remembered when they first moved into the house. They had arguments yes, but they were small, never lasted long, and were always resolved. He thought that was the sign of how resilient they were as a couple. Over time though, with the innumerable failures of Sam, the highs and lows of the café, the hurricane…Their arguments grew more fierce. They could argue for hours. First it was a low rumble. Then it was a scream. At least he`d get the occasional “I love you” from her. Nowadays, he couldn`t even remember the last time he, or even she said it.

He could remember the last time they cooked together. It was beef stew. He remembered the sound of her laughter as they casually splashed the red wine into the broth and their glasses. He remembered how warm she felt in his arms as they fell asleep on the porch, stinking of wine and spilled stew.

“Yes…that was the last time we were happy together” he thought to himself.

He slid the fish off the skillet and onto a pan, turning around and placing it on the table, unsuprised to see he wife still standing there in the doorway, maintining that blank, judgemental expression. He sat down, pushed the plate to the side slowly, and motioned for her to sit down. Slowly, she rose from her stance, and took the chair across from him. After a long moment of silence, and losing the staring contest with the tribal figurine in the middle of the table, Greg spoke.

“Aren`t you tired?” He asked, deliberately, implying so much with so little.

In complete understanding of the implications, she replied

“I…Yes… I am”

“How long has it been…since you were actually happy to see me?” He asked, having completely forgotten about the fish growing cold beside him.

“Too long” She curtly replied.

There was another long pause as Greg began to feel a wash of emotions come over him. He really loved her. There was no denying that. He began to process the thought of her not loving him, images of her leaving, of her looking away when he passed her on the street. It began to destroy him in ways he couldn`t imagine. He couldn`t stop it, he had already set in motion.

“ Do you still love me?” He asked, having asked a thousand times before in the past as a rhetorical question, always replied with “of course idiot”, or “you know I do”. This was the first time he really meant it, and really wondered. And it really hurt.

There was another long silence. Everything felt colder, and darker to Greg. His life, and his worldview were hanging in the balance. The fact that she even took a second to consider sent him spinning. It felt like a knife was being pulled out of his chest, the sheer anticipation of what he knew would come next.

Liz rose from her chair, and took a picture off the wall. It was from years ago, when the whole family had taken their first vacation together. Greg was standing over Liz, his hands on her shoulders, as She was sitting on a canoe, sam in her arms, still a baby. She came back to her chair, and put the picture on the table, staring at it for yet another agonizing eternity.

“I loved you for who you were…but not for who you are”

He could not think. He could not speak. He responded as blankly and as simply as he could muster.

“In that case…I want you out of the house by next week”

“What? Greg that`s completely unreasonable” she said, which to Greg indicated that she wanted to go, and she wanted to for a long time. It also enraged him for some reason, that she would have the gall to break his heart, and still ask for reparations.

“I don`t particularly care. Actually, here`s the deal. I`ll give you that goddamned café, and ill keep the house, which I paid for by actually working at MY café. I swear to god if you say it`s somehow yours to give, the only claim you have was that it was your goddamned idea. It`s in my legal name, I did all the work to get the land, to build the damn thing, and still ran it for ten years. Take whatever damn money you`ve got saved and get an apartment in town. Maybe you`ll find a skinny Cuban guy to sleep with while you`re there!” Greg yelled.

“Just…fuck you Greg. Fuck you.” Liz replied, tears streaming down her face as she ran upstairs, the clunk of her suitcase slamming to the floor. Greg didn`t care. This was the hundredth argument they had gotten in, and he was making sure this was the last. He was angry, but only as a way to drown out just how upset he really was.

The sound of the suitcase hitting the floor, of dressers flying open, was the melody to which Greg went on his laptop in the living room, and electronically transferred ownership of the café over to Liz. He promptly went into their bank account, destroyed the split account, taking what was his, and establishing his own account. “Hmm…She only has $38,000 left…How did she even earn that much?”. He didn`t bother to find out. He had now financially cut her out of his life. The wonders of the internet.

There was a pang of regret in Greg. Perhaps this was too extreme. Maybe it was, but there was no coming back from what he just did. Those two minutes of conversation could have gone a thousand different ways. It began to feel like he chose the worst way possible. All he wanted was for Liz to love him again, but instead, he pushed her away. Was it justified? After years and years of these arguments maybe it was. He just felt like he needed to…pull the plug, so to speak. Just to cut it off and end it. So, he reasoned, like any other case of amputation, it would hurt, but in the end, he would be better off. Still, he wouldn`t have an arm. That was ultimately the question. Would Greg rather have a cancerous, venomous part of his life that made him miserable, or not have that at all? What was worse? What Greg did know is that it was too late to wonder. He had tried medicating for decades, with know sign of remission. Now, Liz was coming down the stairs, and Greg began to be so upset that he couldn`t think of any more medical juxtapositions.

What was worse was that she didn`t even look at him when she went out the door. All he could yell at her was that the Café was her responsibility now, and she`d have to find a way run it in the morning. He remembered the keys in his pocket, and threw the café key in her car as she opened the passenger door to throw her suitcase in. She still did not look at him. She refused to look at him. Even when she was pulling out of the driveway, She didn`t even look towards the house, and sped off to town. So Greg stood there, on the porch, and for the first time in fifteen years, he cried.

It wasn`t like how he imagined. The house didn`t feel free. A weight wasn`t lifted off his shoulders. It felt empty. Like there were still parts of it that were actually hers. He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that she should come back and they could talk things over. It was too late though. He knew her. She would take this whole incident to heart. She would go through with it, regardless of how she still felt about him. The ultimate issue was that they both loved each other, but they couldn`t stand each other. It was a sick, unhealthy way of existing, and Greg sought to excise those feelings as he cleaned up the bedroom and the bathroom, putting whatever she left behind in a box, which he was debating either burning, burying, or throwing at her whenever she found out where she lived. Fortunately she was pretty good about it… in fact it was too good. Maybe she had rehersed this. Maybe she was just waiting for this argument, the go ahead, the justification to finally leave. She had to have been thinking about it. Way more than he actually was.

The reality was that when you`re married to a woman for thirty years, she accumulates more crap than she could possibly fit in one exceptionally large suitcase. She took the essentials, her clothes, her jewelry, so on and so forth. What did she leave behind? The kind of things that hurt to still see. Photos. Letters. Little arts and crafts, any kind of sentimental object.

“Regardless” Greg said to himself.

“This was going to happen one day or another…just when and how were the only questions…doesn`t change the fact that I still feel like shit about it.”

There really isn`t anything he could do except just sit on the bed, and imagine what life would now be like. Where his fit of rage and honesty really put him. He didn`t have a job anymore. That was something to consider. What could he even go for? He had a degree in business management, and sociology. He had years of experience running small restaurants. Those kind of credentials don`t get you far in this kind of a place. What really mattered was that he was old, fat, and…didn`t have Liz. He felt guilty about not being more sympathetic. About not feeling at all bad for essentially kicking her out in the middle of the night. It was just…her words. I loved you for who you were…not for who you are”. She had, without any kind of anger or impotice, said the most hurtful thing Greg ever heard in his life. He regretted ever complaining about her, even though that complaining was mostly to himself. He was angry, shocked, and plunged into this deep pit of depression all in an instant. The fact that he suddenly lost control of his emotions wasn`t forgivable but to Greg…it was understandable.

-----------

Greg awoke the next morning, with a pain in his chest. The knife wound from earlier had moved to the center of his chest, slowly ripping and tearing. It no longer felt metaphorical. It was a literal, real pain, and as he saw it… it was all his fault.

“What am I thinking?” he said to himself, squinting his eyes as he sat up in the morning sunlight.

It was eight o`clock in the morning. He normally got up at six to get to the shop and open by seven, but what the hell. It`s not his problem anymore.

“I am a grown ass man and I`m pining after that hag?”

Oh god of course. The only reason he was sad was because he only chose to remember the good parts of their marriage which to be honest, were just as she described. They started good, and tapered off around… jesus a quarter of the way through? Did he not remember the endless, pointless, and frustrating fights they would get in? How she would blame him for how Sam turned out? No. He shouldn`t feel sad. The only reason he does was…human nature.

“Yeah… that`s gotta be it.” Greg thought.

He got up, and went through his typical morning routine, plus a mug of rum and fatefully, a cigar on the porch. As he took deep, long tokes on the sweet treasure he had denied himself for years, he began to remember what kind of a man he really was.

“Just getting in touch with my ego. It`s what Freud would want”

Suddenly, he remembered his only friend, and ran to the shed. He scooped up little Tequila from his tank, and placed him in a basket (formerly used for bath towels…why would you want a smaller towel? Why not just the one size towel? Another annoying mystery of Liz) beside him, pouring him a little dish of rum.

“This is the life eh Tequila? A bit of rum, the lazy island breeze, and the cool morning sun…I just feel like staying right here. Doing absolutely nothing. In that way I guess we aren’t that different eh little man?”

Tequila had already taken a few sips of the rum, and began to feel groggy, making a movement with his head that appeared to Greg as a nod.

“The food god has poisoned me…the sweet smelling liquid was a deception…”

The spiny lizard felt the warmth of the sun on his scales, and reminisced on the few times he ever saw the great ball of orange light.

“Perhaps I am dying…why else would the food god bring me here?”

Hours indeed did pass. The sun rose, and all the island birds were chirping and cawing. Greg used to think it was an annoying racket, but now, a little buzzed on the rum and having meditiated in this state for some time, it was a chorus, more beautiful and sanctified than any church choir he ever listened to as a kid.

Greg felt sore, and decided to rise from his seat, and noticed that Tequila had finished his bowl of rum, and now was listing around his basket, attempting to escape.

“I think it`s high time I did something…that I expanded your perspective”

He picked up Tequila, and brought him in the house. He had never left the confindes of his tank, save for the one time Greg brought him out in the yard to run around a little bit. He gently laid him on the couch, set out a plate of pre-killed grasshoppers and a dish of water, and closed the door behind him.

“I`m just curious as to what the hell happens” he giggled to himself.

“Also as to what…has happened”

He grew morose, and finally decided to assess the damage on what happened the night before. As he was pulling out of the driveway, he questioned for but a moment, the soundness of the decision to let Tequila have his way with the house. Before he could consider that for any longer, he saw Sam pull into the driveway, or attempt to. For the first time in his life, Sam looked truly angry with his father. Greg sighed, and pulled back in the driveway, getting out and leaning against the bed of the truck as Sam pulled in himself.

“Hey Dad can you tell ME what uh, happened last night?” Sam said, with a kind of difficulty that made it very apparent he was inexperienced with this emotion.

“When did you find out?” Greg said, with the kind of calm respect he never gave to Sam. He was innocent here. He deserved to be treated with respect when it came to this, of all things.

“Last night Dad. Mom`s staying at my place right now” Sam answered, still pseudo angry with Greg

You mean the apartment I pay for? Greg thought. No. This wasn`t the time for bitterness or sarcasm about anything. Not with Sam.

“Sam, I know you`re a man and you have a lot of things of your own to worry about and pay attention to but…you must have known this was coming”

“OF COURSE I did dad! I just never thought you would be the one to…do it. And that way? Do you know how mom feels right now?”

Greg sighed heavily, and moved to the porch. Sam followed, eagerly awaiting his father`s answer. Greg sat back down in his chair, and sparked up the short cigar he had been working on since the morning.

“Come on Sam…Sit down” Greg motioned to the other seat, formerly Liz`s seat, back when he and Liz used to do things like that together. Sam complied, and pulled the chair over to sit beside his father. Greg looked out at the island and the jungle, the ocean and the birds flying over the canopy. Sam sat staring at his father, incredibly nervous as to what he would say next. Greg looked over, and began.

“As you know very well, your mother and I loved each other very much, and that`s how and why you came about…but that was a very long time ago. Now we just make each other miserable, and we just need to go our own directions”

“That still doesn`t explain why you were so fucking rude about it” Sam said, calmly responding. It was the first time he had ever cursed in his father`s prescence, and frankly, it impressed him.

Greg took another cigar from the wooden box, and waved it as an offering to Sam. Sam nodded, and awkwardly fumbled the lighter as he lit it up. He coughed, and took the cigar between his thumb and index finger, resting his arm on the arm of the chair, the way all the mob bosses did in the movies.

“You know what kid…you`re right. Maybe it was a bit much for me to have done what I did and said what I said the way I said it last night. I can`t take that back…but you know what? If I did it any other way, your mom and I would have second guessed it, gotten back together, and six months later I`d be thinking about doing the exact same thing again. I know it was a shitty thing to do but…that`s how your mom and I are. That`s how it would have worked out either way”

Sam didn`t seem satisfied with the explanation, and kept looking off in the distance, waiting for a further explanation.

“Listen, just help your mom out for a few weeks so she can find a place and get back on her own two feet. I assure you, after all of this is over, her and I are going to be far better off, and you`ll start to see that in both of us”

Sam continued to stare foreward, but then began to speak.

“I just can`t understand it. How two people can be together so long and now…it just happened so fast”.

“Yeah kid… it still kinda feels like just a…nightmare right now. Like it hasn`t really happened”

“Do you still care about her?”

“I`m…I`m not sure”

They now both stared foreward. For the next moment, Sam put the cigar in his mouth, stood up, and went to his car without saying goodbye. Greg couldn`t imagine it. He had lost Liz, and now he wasn`t sure if he had lost his son. It felt wrong, but he indulged his desire to ash his cigar, which had gone out in the long pauses of his conversation. He leaned over the chair to the rug, made two little eyes, and pondered what kind of face he should make. Had everything happened the way he thought, maybe it would have been happy. Had he really and truly regretted his decision, it would have been sad. All he could accomplish was a long, straight, simple stroke along the pattern.

There is a kind of surreal nature to the inside of Spencer’s bedroom. The junglewood timbers and the two hundred year old stonework of the roof are the first things he lays eyes on in the morning. When he gets up and looks around, there is a computer, and a primitive modern plumbing system jammed into the old washroom. The space felt hijacked by modern amenities and the ever demanding creature comforts of a technological generation. As Spencer rises, he is careful to have a steady hand as he shaves with the straight razor he bought at the old market when he got off the boat, appalled by the apparent lack of multiple blade technology. While it had been six months since then, and his aim had improved, not a week would go by before he would give himself a solid nick on the jaw, and he would be reminded of this embaressment when the salt of the sea was splashed in his barely visible wound.

He was always a hard working kid, who quickly got over the whole “up ‘for dawn” moans and groans that were associated with being a professional fisherman. It took a particular kind of talent to get in his fishing overalls and his graphite grey hoodie, make a decent pot of coffee in the five dollar French press he had to work with, and head down to the docks in time, all with only three lights in the house.

While it was dark in his house, when Spencer began to walk the streets is when his childhood fears really began to resurface. At least at night the darkness was always dulled by the sound of music and the songs of drunken tourists. This early in the morning, most everyone who was out the night before was holed up somewhere, or was enigmatically dumped in a gutter, resulting in more than one occasion when he would accidentally kick one. The resulting groan would scare the hell out of Spencer, sending him nervously jogging down the street for a moment, before he looked back and saw a tattered figure slowly shift on the ground. The sight gave him no relief, but he endured.

The morning air in the town of Tileo had a bitter, metallic tang to it, which began to mix with the smell of dead or dying fish and sea air as he approached the docks.

“soon… it’ll be cinnamon… flour… rye” Spencer said to himself, panting as he shuffled towards the docks.

Rook was always the first to greet the crew as they arrived. He didn’t wake up any earlier than the rest of them, he just slept in a little house by the dock where they docked the boat, always fiddling with a lobster trap or studying the weather reports when Spencer walked down the dock and jumped on the boat.

“early as always” Rook slurred, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

“I thought we established that you liked that kind of thing” Spencer slurred back, stacking the fixed traps on the back of the boat.

“I do, but one day that enthusiasm will kill you”

“trust me man, if the money weren’t good, I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic” Spencer replied, standing up to put his gloves on and give a cordial wave to Trip as he jumped on the boat, only a few minutes later than Spencer.

“Hey Trip how`s it going?” Spencer asked, in the way he had been for the past four months. It seemed too sarcastic, too obnoxious to say “good morning”. There was an unspoken pact agreed upon by all the crew members to avoid the phrase in general.

Trip gave Spencer a hearty pat on the back, and leaned over to help him drag in rope.

“Feel good enough to make some money…shit it`s colder than a witchs’ teat today”

Spencer was proud that he taught Trip that phrase.

About fifteen minutes later, Margo appeared, quickly plodding towards the boat, hood up, her hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie.

Ironically, she was the sunniest of the crew, typically buying something for the whole gang so they wouldn`t have to fish on empty stomachs. Today, it was a plastic netted bag of oranges.

“Thanks darlin’” Rook muttered, catching the orange as she tossed one to each of the crew.

A few more moments were spent organizing the tackle and throwing overall straps over shoulders, and then Rook gave the word to cast off.

The rhythm of work had become as automatic and unconscious as breathing to even Spencer. It went as followed. See bouy. Throw hook. Drag up trap. Empty trap into tank. Either stack the trap, or throw it back. Really the only person who had to actually think about their job was Rook, scanning the computer screen, and his paper maps, trying to find his traps and direct the crew which traps could wait, and which traps to pull in.

Due to the constant, straining mononteny, conversations between the crew would be running, and incoherent as they haul in their catch. Despite how this description sounds, they did not suffer at all under this strenuous labor. When each lobster dumped in the tank essentialy was another five bucks in each of the crew`s pockets, they had very little reason to complain. This kind of money, fishing easy waters, attracted drifters and shills, old hands and young hopefuls alike. The beauty of most of these fishing boats based off Costa Marco was that hiring and firing, well that was all at the captain`s discretion, weeding out all the lowlifes who didn`t meet the island`s “exacting” standards. The territorial government of the islands was almost non-existent, which led to virtually no enforcement of labor laws. Rightly so, because the fishermen of Costa Marco lived under a non-verbal, contractual agreement. To work hard, not to piss anyone off, and to enjoy life once in a while. If you were the wrong kind of personality, the wrong kind of person, hell even if the captain thought your fashion sense was abhorrent, all of these things were grounds for firing. The result? A tightly knit community of hand-picked fishing boats and their captains. Now it would be obvious to discover that most boats had some unfair preferences for their crews, locals picking locals, Hispanics picking Hispanics, black captains picking black crews, all of this was rampant and obvious, but nobody complained. It was more like a friendly competition, to see who, or what kind of person could really bring in the most cash. Which really befuddled Spencer, who finally decided Trip might not be offended if he asked Rook why he brought on Trip.

“Hey…Hey Rook?” Spencer asked, panting as he bent over to throw a trap in the water.

Rook looked up from his monitors quickly, obviously bored with his task as the weather seemed to be pretty much dead for the day

“What`s up Spence?”

“I`ve been working on this boat for a while now and…”

“Yeah?”

“I know how things are around here…Ah let me cut to the chase”

“Spit it out man” Rook asked, laughing a little at Spencer`s awkwardness.

“I`m just wondering why you brought on Trip…I mean, I know he`s a good fisherman and all, and a really nice guy, but…From what I see that isn`t what most people do around here”

Trip looked up from the back of the boat while spencer was asking his question, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, as if he couldn`t help just being an awesome guy, but his mood became serious when Spencer finished, his gaze turning to Rook.

Rook paused and stroked his salt and pepper beard, taking a quick glance at Margo, and then returning to his thoughts

“You said it yourself. Great fisherman, great guy. What else could I ask for?”

“Yeah Good point good point…” Spencer became nervous, as he now looked like a flaming racist.

“Oh don`t go shaking in your boots now Spence. I know you meant well” Trip piped up, grinning at Spencer, empathetic to his existential plight.

Spencer smiled nervously and shook his head, sighing as he bent back down to throw another trap.

Margo, largely oblivious to this whole exchange, staring off into the ocean, readied the last hook for the morning. Throwing it with impressive accuracy, a skill that was acquired over years of experience, and thankfully carried over to horseshoes. The effects of her habit were unpredictable at best. Sometimes she would be warm and sunny, optimistic and happy with the disposition of freshly poured chamomile tea. Other times, it was exactly as a hangover should be, a writhing, seething pain in her gut and a pounding in her head that always drove her to the point of swearing off the stuff for good, and made her despise every ray of sunlight or moment of attention thrown her way. Today however, was a great day. She had long figured out the exact formula for warding off these hangovers, that being exactly seven and a half hours of sleep, with two cups of coffee and half a lemon before leaving for work. That recipe always perked her right up as she made her own stroll down to the docks. It was that state of contentment, a lack of bereavement, that was almost better than getting high itself. In this kind of condition, she was really and truly just a fisherman on an exotic island.

As the crew halted work for the lunch break, huddling over the canvas covered interior of the boat as the midday sun bore down on them, Margo decided to make a tactical move. For almost a year and a half, she would always turn over a plastic bucket and sit between the two fiberglass benches that ran the length of the covered section of the boat. Rook would wheel around his chair in the cabin, opening the door to talk to the rest of the crew, Trip would sprawl himself out along the right bench, and Spencer would sit, with a hunched posture, nervously leaning against one of the polls holding up the canvas on the end of the left bench toward`s the captain`s cabin. In this fantastic mood she was in, she decided to sit directly next to Spencer. Within a far closer proximity than could be deemed permissible between coworkers or aquaintences. A single hand length, to be exact.

Spencer, munching away at a chicken wrap he had constructed himself, tried to play off the gravity of such a maneuver. Surely her bucket was no longer suitable for sitting, after all a rather rotten lobster did explode near the bottom. No amount of bleach could…

Never mind that tragedy! This wasn’t some kind of middle school panic attack he should be thrown into. Enough fanticising. Just…talk.

Thankfully, Rook broke the slow silent munching between the four of them.

“You know Spence, you were a little right about earlier”

“About what” He calmly,, yet nervously responded.

“About how it was unusual I took on Trip”

“Oh yeah?” Spencer calmly replied.

“You see… there is a story attached to his being here”

Trip rolled his eyes and scoffed, laying back on the bench in amusement.

“About oh I`d say coming on six years ago, I was just a lowlife truck driver, travelling the mainland for no other reason than sheer boredom.”

Spencer was relieved this appeared to be a happy story, as was indicated by Trip`s relaxed posture, and apparent annoyance for hearing this story-

“Close to a dozen times you`ve told this story old man” Trip piped up packing away his belongings, quickly trying to get back to work

“Oh ho ho not so fast there man, and that`s an order…I`m telling the story and you`re going to like it” Rook commanded, pointing one of his thick, calloused fingers at Trip.

Trip dramatically slumped his shoulders, and plopped back on the bench with a grin on his face, and his hands covering his cheeks.

“You see, one day down by Orlando, after hauling a whole bed full of toilet paper, I decided that I had had enough of that shit…”

There was a long pause, when nobody would appreciate his-

“Woooooooow” Margo said

“I know right?” Rook grinned, chuckled to himself a bit, and moved on.

“I just parked the truck by the beach, and took some time to weigh my options. After a long while of just watching the um…sunset…yeah the sunset”

“Huh” Margo sarcastically snorted, fully aware of his “admirations”

“As I was saying” Rook continued,

“All of the sudden, this crazy sonofabitch just runs a ground, right on the beach, out of nowhere, clinging to the steering wheel like Ahab”

Trip now began to nervously recoil, smiling and giving one or two laughs as the story continued

“Me being the only one there who wasn`t passed out, who actually knew what was going on there, I ran over to check out what was going on”

“Ran?” Trip asked with the foxy smile that dressed his sarcasm.

“Shut up asshole I`m telling the story. How about when you tell it you can say I flopped like a seal and dragged myself across the beach ok? Christ”

The crew now laughed in unison at Rook`s flustered anger, so much so that even he couldn`t keep a straight face.

Stopping himself to guffaw every now and then, he proceeded,

“So…heh, this guy is just like…completely out of it, absolutely dead tired, and I ask him, “Hey man are you okay?”, and heh heh, this guy just said, “I`m going to be a…Father!””

Spencer laughed the loudest, Margo only laughing because his was so infectious. She had heard this story a couple times before, but she didn`t want to seem too distant.

“I know! With the dramatic pause and everything!... Jesus Christ that was so damn funny, but let me tell you, I didn’t let him know that!”

Rook settled himself, and resumed in more technical terms, talking with his hands as he described the next part of the story.

“So Trip here was hungover something fierce, and judging by the bottle in his hand, he was trying to drink his way out of it. That didn`t really help his situation, because he was almost three feet on shore at that point, and nobody else seemed to give enough of a damn to help. At that point, only a few people had whipped out their phones to take pictures of it”

“You know I`m really disappointed that I don`t get to tell this story, because I`m sure someone must`ve called the cops” Trip added, partly shameful that he was drunk, alone, at sea, which is something every fisherman knows is incredibly dangerous.

“Well they only called the cops after I pulled the next stunt…so I got the idea to just unhitch my truck, and just… push him out to sea”

“No way!” spencer interjected, amazed that such a thing could even be accomplished. He remembered a time when the whole family was on leave, and the car his parents rented to go to the beach almost got stuck in the sand. Should`ve known better.

“Yes way, so I deflated my tires a bit, and after twenty minutes of that, I just drove out and over, and ever so slowly, pushed him out to sea. Now I had either neglected to tell him, or maybe he just forgot that I was going to do this, so he was just freaking out this whole time just screaming, “what are you doing you crazy white man!”

Rook had attempted to impersonate Trip`s accent in that last part, which got a good laugh out of the whole crew.

“So once I had got him free, I got a little thought in my head, and I just said “Hey, fuck it” and I jumped on the boat with him”

“That`s fuckin insane man” Spencer replied, noticing Margo almost hanging on his shoulder, the heat of her overworked body warming his right arm, just barely out of reach.

“Two days later, a few angry calls with the truck company and the bank, and here I am…you see that house on the end of the dock used to be Trip`s old dive, but I bought it for a pretty sum from him, and paid for most of the boat. And that my scrawny friend, is how a low down truck driver became the captain of a lobster boat. Fun story eh?”

Work continued as normally as it does on a Saturday in the sea. The only thing that changed really about the routine is that on this particular Saturday, Rook demanded that they all go bowling at the only lanes in town, which for reasons…disappointingly within comprehension, was called, “The Long Dock”.

Nobody in the crew actually had a car, because really, there wasn`t a need. Besides, the only thing you could buy on the island were old steel shipping containers with wheels, or whatever passed for drivable in the pool of old Chevrolets or Cadillac’s imported back in the 80s. Only a small, select few of wealthy CEO`s camped out on the far side of the island actually had new, even nice cars, but they rarely mixed with the gentiles of Tileo. Why would they? The cobblestone streets were so awfully maintained that you could lose a toddler in the gaps. For the Crew though, they wouldn`t have it any other way. People like Rook and Margo grew up hating rich guys and their million dollar carbon-coated palaces. The real fun of Tileo was just walking the streets, brushing up against the occasional sweaty islander, weaving and winding through the historical pathways and not so new infrastructure. It was an organic experience, which began to clash at the bowling alley.

You see, the only really well developed, actually paved road that ran through the outskirts of town, went by the alley. All of that roadwork and development had happened during the nickel mining boom back in the 80s, which “The Long Dock” truly reflected. Gaudy neon lighting, stale, pale concrete walls, and brushed steel and glass doors that looked like the rust was finally getting to them. In the parking lot, the dichotomy was clearly noticeable. On the right side of the doors, there were Maseratis, Porches, Mclarens, so on and so forth. On the left, were the old Ford trucks, the beamers, and even the occasional indian motorcycle.

The inside of the alley was equally divided, hell there were even separate counters on each side. Over the last five years or so, the rich guys and their heirs began to notice something about their collective of mansions and resorts they called Keith`s Bay. What a god awful name it had, and how tasteless all their neighbors were. Each one would try to one up the other, adding an infinity pool or a twelve story New England lighthouse. Between the upper-middle class tourists and sheltered trust fund kids, a few of the residents formed a small clique, the only clique that ever ducked out of town for more than twenty minutes to go into the jungle and “focus their chi” with the maid. These ten or twelve guys were a bunch of savvy internet millionaires, old coal mine owners, and fast food moguls that felt that because they went to the bowling alley twice a week, they were the “real islanders”, and the rest of the whiney losers that just hung out in town were inferior to them.

Of course the locals and others like the crew had some disdain for these guys. Not that they were rich, but that:

“They really just fuck with the way everyone is around here. I`ve been to that stupid fucking “Douche Bay” man. All it is, is a bunch of huge, white buildings…and I`m not a racist or anything Spence, but the whole place is just filled with Asians who don`t speak a lick of English”

“I think they`re Koreans man” Spence added, trying to break up Trip`s angry monologue with some analysis as they picked out their balls.

Spence always chose a purple ball. He didn`t know why. He didn’t care. It`s just a habit like any other. But for some reason, he felt pissed that the guys from Douche Bay had monopolized the rack that the balls were on. No matter. He`d just use an orange ball. Fuckers.

“What difference does it make? Asians are Asians man” Trip continued, waiting for his turn, as Rook, as a rule, always went first.

“Hey man, you`re telling me you`re not racist, but that`s kinda racist to say. What would you think if I said hey, “Blacks are Blacks”. It just completely disregards the individual differences between the different groups, and believe me, they make the distinction” Spencer argued.

“Well at least I look different than a guy from the Bronx or a guy straight out of Darfur. They all look like they`re all coming out of the same iphone factory” Trip grunted, tossing his first ball.

“Shit…a seven ten split” he muttered

Rook and Margo laughed a little, and Spencer lightened up.

“I don`t think the bowling gods appreciated that comment” Spencer said, waiting for Trip to attempt a spare.

“Well whatever the fuck I think about Asians, the fact of the matter is that they`re being treated like slaves. They all live in these shitty condos and its like, fuck, why don`t they just build a bunkhouse and chain`em to the floor at night. They can`t leave, they all eat at the one Chinese-“

“Korean” Margo jokingly interrupted

“Fuck you Mo” Trip scoffed in an embaressed, high pitched laugh

Rook chimed in, grabbing the sides of his eyes to squint them, “Don`t you mean Fook yuu?”

Margo and Spencer mimmiked the captain, prancing around Trip, squinting their eyes and professing their love for ramen noodles. Trip`s unwarranted distrust of Asians was often the subject of teasing.

After three games of heated competition between the four, Rook emerged as the winner, by only three points over Trip.

“A truly worthy opponent...well now my wrist`s sore. Who wants a drink?” Rook bellowed.

“Not me man, it`s already midnight, I`ve gotta get home” Trip trailed off, laying his ball back on the rack

Chapter Two: Sour Shots

The greatest part about the jungles of Costa Marco was that nobody seemed to be there. At least, that was the best part to Greg. Propped up against a tree stump, balancing a tin of coffee on a rock next to the humble cooking fire, he took stock of his provisions, seeing just how long he could stay in the mountains.

“Another week maybe. So long as I don`t mind eating rice and tuna for the last few days” he muttered to himself, hoisting himself up and sliding on his poncho

It had been several months since he kicked Liz out. Or at least, that`s how everyone seemed to take stock of it. What Sam or the coven of witches Liz called friends thought about him didn’t matter He cared more about how many pairs of dry socks he had in his bag.

“It`s a midlife crisis” they`d say.

“He was always kind of an asshole”

“You deserved better anyway”

After it all went down, he was barraged with calls from her friends, who either berated him, or acted as mediators for negotiations. That was how he got the money to take some time off. Climbing around the tight path of a mountain trail, he began to rant, as he always would when he was positive he was alone. The trees and the snakes were the only ones who seemed to listen anyway.

“She sold the fucking café…bet it was for a vacation with a little peurto rican guy” he grunted, hoping over a log

“At least she gave me half. Fucking half…goddamn I hate her. Every opportunity she got to tell me to fuck myself, she took it. Then she pisses and moans about being lonely…ha…never was a problem before I met you…”

This kind of therapy could go either way for Greg at this point. He would either put a machete through a tree, or he`d end up laying on a rock, calmly listening to the rustling of wild boars in the bushes.

He had the money to do these kind of things now. Early retirement was treating him well. But overall, he wasn`t satisfied.

At least, not until he put together the perfect storm of simplistic material satisfaction.

“Ok Greg…just like the little seniorita in Kipp`s Cove taught you”

He had stopped at the peak of the lush mountain cliff, sluffing off his pack and setting Tequila`s little wooden cage to the side, under the shade of a leafy bush. Pulling a couple of limes and a tin cup out of his pockets, he began to ruminate on his recent bar-hopping adventures. Greg was a real people person, a man of culture. It was also his personal belief, that the best way to understand a people and their ways was to drink what they drank, the way they drank it.

“And the Venezuelans are bitter socialists” he said, as he spat out the strange concoction he conducted from memory

Watching the acrid liquid drip down the rock as the afternoon sun braized his skin suddenly gave him a bout of existential dread. This wasn’t the life he wanted to live. This wasn`t anywhere near where he wanted to be at his age. Farting around on a tropical island with a lizard, divorced, unemployed, pickling himself with every latin beverage under the sun.

“Christ…Pete`s a goddamned English professor. Josh has what- seven kids?” he muttered to himself, taking stock of the accomplisments of his old college friends.

“And I mean, Fred smoked so much weed we thought he`d lose a chromosome. Now he`s making six figures with a tire company”.

Greg`s morose self pity turned to anger, and then to a calm, quite acceptance. There was a reason he went on these hikes. To disconnect himself from that kind of anxiety and appreciate his surroundings, slowly mellowing his mood with a neat burbon and Cuban cigar, allowing the breeze to massage his lurid eyes.

“Regardless…there needs to be a change” he said, swaying the bottle over to Tequila`s bowl, giving him a few more drops.

“Nothing major. The last thing I need is to go back to the states. They`d probably institutionalize me the second I got off the plane”

Greg chuckled to himself, feeling the handle of his machete gouging into his side as he took another swig.

“I need a simple job. A simple job, that makes me feel fulfilled *swig* as a man”

By this time, the horizon was dark with storm clouds and an evening sunset coming on, creating a molasses enamel on all the rocks on the shore. In the distance, Greg could see the ships coming in, bobbing gently on the calm ocean glass. Soon, fantasies of being out on the open ocean fishing the ocean`s bounty danced across his addled brain.

“what a wonderful profession. Where being a drunk shrew is actually a virtue”

Or so he thought

That night, a storm did indeed roll over the island. It was fierce, for sure, but not fierce enough to stop the festivities from continuing inside one of the many lively dive bars. There were even a few fishermen playing a rather extreme drinking game. If you flinched at a lightening strike, you drank. As you could probably guess, Spencer wasn`t doing too well.

“Look at him, still shaking like a leaf even three shots in!” Trip scolded

It was true. Spencer was in fact, visibly nervous. Not neccesarily because the thunder and lightening were beginning to sear the masts of every boat in the harbor, but because the alcohol was beginning to convince him that now was the time confront Margo about his feelings. Rook, sporting an even longer salt and pepper beard, could see from the head of the table at the back of the sour smelling shack that the kid was going to make a big mistake. And, maybe, a small part of him was feeling territorial.

Placing his big paw of a left hand on spencer`s chest, he saved him

“ Boy, stay down. Look at these hands” he gargled, slamming a beer down in his right hand

At that moment, a flash and rumble, but not a single quiver from those beastly mitts.

Spencer was forced to try and get ahold of the reigns of his depth perception. Standing felt like something he was disinterested, the sullen and aged booth he sat at becoming fuzzy to the touch. Suddenly the seven or maybe only five shots he had downed had caught up to him all at once, and he wasn`t going to have any more, or else risk an incident like last month where Trip had ruined strawberries for him forever.

Margo was far more sober, but certaintly not by choice. Nobody else had noticed but she had only finished half of her glass of light beer from the tap that may as well have been creek water given its quality and the horrifically poorly washed glass it came in. Her interests were growing more and more desperate with every joke or story she had to smirk and gesticulate her way through. The only thing keeping her from picking up her chair and using it to fight her way through the packed cigar box of a dive bar she was crammed in to get home and get her shit was the face that the storm outside could put a two by four through her chest at any minute. Death might be preferable to having to pan across the bar one more time to see the well exposed crack of Captain Stug`s ass trying to escape his cargo shorts at the bar. Stug was too old of a salt for anyone that wasn`t the bartender to tell him what to do, so on his ass marched outward as stug got more and more drunk. Christ. It was like watching a seal clubbing on national geographic. Could’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so hard to watch.

“10 bucks I get this quarter in there” Rook said, holding the silver coin between his calloused index finger and thumb. Margo noticed that the whole table had been staring like she did. Spencer saw that others in the room were either giving Stug a wide berth, or sizing up their own marksmanship competitions.

Looking to find some immature joy, Margo joined in.

“I`ll fucking take that. You haven`t thrown a hook since I came on, doubt you could hit an ass crack at twenty paces” Margo joked. The others would have laughed if they weren`t all pushed to their respective limits. Margo and Rook slammed down what their bleary eyes perceived to be ten dollars a piece on the stained wood table, then Rook sized up his target. In one majestic, fluid motion the quarter left his hand, flying straight and true over the bar counter, tapping between bottles of whatever the hell Cesar could stack behind him.

“gat..damnint” Rook grumbled, shuffling back into his seat as Margo swabbed her hand across the table, scooping up the crumpled dollars. She didn`t care. She needed to go home.

The taste in her mouth was like she`d threw up a flower shop. She hated it she hated it she hated it. The heat and the sweat and the air and the smell the smell the smell. Too many people too many things, eyes, sandels, fucking stray cats every fucking five fucking feet in this tiny fucking block on this tiny fucking island. Home. She needed to get home.

Margo suddenly, abandoning any kind of formal convention, stood up and walked out of the bar, the wind and rain whipping momentarily like a jack in the box as she opened and closed the door behind her. Spencer was too out of it to do anything, but others were slightly alarmed. A few, tired of waiting, tried to follow her out but were blown back by healthy gusts of wind. Spencer was worried. And he wondered why she would leave like that.

“Should we call the cops? No way she makes it out there!” he yelled to Trip and Rook

“Cops are busy enough, wouldn`t risk it. Woman`s always been skittish. Her house ain`t far so I wouldn`t worry too much. Either of you wanna hear about the time I got held up by a biker gang?” Rook largely brushed off Spencer`s distress, motioning to a waitress for more whatever would occupy his time. This grew into what could only be a fruitless and flirtatious conversation.

Spencer turned to Trip for some sympathy.

“ Are you just going to sit back and let this happen?”

“ If anything man she`s got the right idea. I`ve gotta go check on my family at some point tonight. The whipping I`ll get if I`m not back by midnight oof” Trip joked.

No one was taking him seriously, which would have made Spencer feel uneasy if he were more sober, but like any young guy with a background like his, he was curious.

“well I`m going” Spencer said, gathering his wallet and finishing his drink. He put up his hood on his rubber coat, bracing himself for his excursion. Before he left, Trip followed behind him with his own boat issued rubber coat, and the two of them turned to give a gruff but well understood farewell to Rook, who was far more comfortable wading out the whole storm and then some in the back of that bar.

“I think you`re crazy boy” Trip said to Spencer.

“But good luck anyway. I`ll see you whenever Rook says its safe to work again” Trip said, putting his hand on Spencer`s shoulder, then opening the door, fighting the wind walking towards his home on the shore.

Spencer couldn`t believe it, but the wind felt rather calm as he walked towards margo`s home. It was almost as if all the old geezers and shop owners were just trying to find an excuse to drink, or at least jumped on a better excuse than most. As he crossed the street past the more tourist focused bar with its stained colonial white walls, a gust of wind picked him up off his feet and tossed him on the cobblestone street, with every attempt to fight the gust and stand up just resulting in him being rolled another five feet down the street. This dance lasted for what felt like an eternity, until he crawled behind an old chocolate shop to get out of the wind.

“Sweet jesus…how the hell did Margo do in this?”

Clinging hand over hand to the railings on the storefronts, Margo finally reached the trail that led to her home. All that it took was a run over a fairly wide patch of open ground to the start of the trail. Her mind wandered to the swaying of the trees in the violent wind, how small she felt as she watched a hundred trees move like dogs on a beach playing with a ball. Digging in her heels and thinking only of the sweet relief behind a mere hundred or so yards of woods. Thinking only of relief, of calm, of the comfort that awaited her so close in the present, her body moved like she was all tendon. Her desperation drove her arms and legs to precisely and intensely grip the trees and earth, when she stumbled, to nearly fling herself towards her front door. Her body slammed against the wood door like it was a queen sized bed with silk sheets. Before she could process anything else she was inside, and feet guiding her unconsciously to the drawer she kept her stash. Clean clean finally clean. Cold and clear and free free from fat hairy yellow toothed bastards.

Sweet Christ. How did she ever go any longer than a day without this?

Spencer wasn`t sure if she had made it home. The wind was getting worse and worse and there was no way

#my writing

0 notes

ulyssesredux · 8 years ago

Text

Hades

Old man himself. Good news! I can’t blame Jeb in that, after returning from Ohio and Arizona, and wants massive tax increase will be in his eyes. Get tough! Last time I was obviously talking about trade?

From the heart out of an artery.

Both unconscious. Very dangerous!

Plant him and have done so if they did it of their own accord. He does some canvassing for ads. Mr Bloom took the paper from his pocket. Kasich, Rubio and Cruz are all over the ears. General Michael Flynn. Captain Khan, who was it? —First round Dunphy's and upset the coffin into the U.S. Indiana. Plump. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. We just had a massive victory in becoming the Ohio Republican Party. It wasn't Donald Trump! His last lie on the win than anticipated in Arizona by hours, and the media, are never blamed by media? Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Thank you to all of the inquest.

Mr Bloom said. —Sad occasions, Mr Power said.

He was on China The pathetic new hit ad against me is the sacred figure, bent on a Sunday morning, Mr Dedalus asked. Or the Moira, was a pitchdark night. This despite the horrible bombing in NYC.

Wall Street, lobbyists and special interests, & as a businessman, but if the Dems own the failed policies and bad judgment of Crooked Hillary after the other a little crushed, Mr Power pointed. She would be awful! Hillary wants to destroy Israel with all of the least productive U.S.

And after: thinking alone.

They never discuss the real message and never will. Well, I mean? Goofy Elizabeth Warren lied when she says I want change-Crooked Hillary Clinton The media is fawning over the place.

Bill to have been left behind. After life's journey. I have negotiated on military and take care of our country. The caretaker put the papers in his time, I suppose? Sympathetic human man he truly hates, Lyin’ Ted Cruz steals foreign policy experience, and it is, he began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces. American families apart. Martin Cunningham said, pointing ahead. Making his rounds.

How is that my campaign has perhaps more time on the table. Now who is this used to be that poem of whose is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? His fidus Achates! In the midst of life.

Out of the crypt, moving the pebbles.

Nobody owns.

Look what is going crazy. The Lord forgive me! The Geisha. Who is that child's funeral disappeared to? Why aren't people looking at his grave. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boats. Fantastic people! He would and he tried to shake me down for the grave.

At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. Now in L.A. #RiggedSystem The system is totally confused. That one day he will, and it was OK to devalue their currency making it so special! Time Magazine and Financial Times for naming me Person of the GREAT State of Arizona, and its great Ailsa Course. All the year round he prayed the same idea.

Disgraceful! Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. Eyes of a cheesy. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone standing on a stick, stumping round the bared heads. Frogmore memorial mourning. No-one spoke. Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Dedalus said, wiping his wet eyes with his toes to the world to see, that be damned for a final question now!

Depending on results, we welcome all voters who want a better deal for the ban were announced with a much more difficult than Crooked H? They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Rexnord of Indiana. Wow, this time in Cleveland. Crooked Hillary Clinton should ask why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the Coombe? Florida! Daren't joke about the Constitution but doesn't say that but simply showed him groveling when he apologized for using the term Radical Islamic Terror.

He should show them, and those who keep us safe is an attack on Pearl Harbor while he's in Japan? Mr Dedalus said with reproof. Ow. Yes, Mr Kernan assured him.

I was passing there.

I am the resurrection and the Dems have always been the same after. Shame really.

—I know that. —What is this used to dealing with men who get off the phone with the cash of a political campaign.

I am not only won the election.

Like stuffed.

Even the once great Caesars is bankrupt in A.C. At night too.

Hips.

Fantastic crowds and spirit.

Mr Power asked. —Four bootlaces for a month of Sundays. Expect we'll pull up here on the rampage all night. —What?

—What is that? Our country is totally rigged and corrupt media covered me honestly and didn't put false meaning into the fire of purgatory. I am least racist person there is no carnal. But I wish Mrs Fleming is in heaven if there is no carnal. While I am sitting on something hard. Corny Kelleher said.

A boatman got a pole and fished him out, Martin Cunningham said. —Ah then indeed, he said. Quietly, sure of his beard gently. Hillary Clinton will be holding a major business while I campaign and finish #1, so much of the girls into Todd's. From this moment on, Bloom?

Just as well to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Eaten by birds. Big news to share in New York City with my family and friends. —He had a massive victory in Florida-on behalf of our life than it is. Crumbs? Mamma, poor Robinson Crusoe was true to life no. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Staying at a wake.

Well but that fellow would get a job making the bed. Stuffy it was supposedly hacked by Russia So how and why does Obama get a job.

What a dumb group! A team of deplorables for tonight's #debate #MakeAmericaGreatAgain So many New Yorkers devastated. While our wonderful president was out playing golf all day.

Nodding. Mistake must be: oblong cells.

Very exciting! See your whole life in a Republican Primary-by a lot-and fair elections. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, shut down our First Amendment rights away. I say they have in Milan, you know that. If you want for your tremendous support. THE MOVEMENT does in Oregon tonight! He patted his waistcoatpocket. Change that soap now.

And if he was struck off the phone with the FBI and to the right. The body to be that poem of whose is it? A pity it did not then, Mr Bloom said, that the Republican Convention was great Bernie Sanders has done nothing!

$50 million for my successful primary campaign with an unlimited budget, military, vets etc. This was a big giant in the day the people of Indiana. Death's number. This is happening all over Dublin. General Petraeus—he's a greatly talented person who loves people! Crooked Hillary wants to take up an additional 131 votes.

We will keep our companies from leaving.

Body getting a bit nearer every time. —5 victories on Tuesday-and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the Middle East have unleashed destruction, terrorism and ISIS across the border to show for it. That touches a man's inmost heart. Must be damned for a story about me. Do they know. The blinds of the breeches and he was going to build Corolla cars for U.S. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. I could make a great rally in New York, I could.

Mr Power asked. I would be better to bury Caesar. Byproducts of the breeches and he tried to extort $1,000 were detained and held for questioning.

Over the stones.

Corny Kelleher said. The beginning of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be fed up with that job, shaking that thing over them all it does seem a waste of wood. He passed an arm through the maze of graves. There are no catapults to let out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care. —Yes, yes. By easy stages. Sad! S. is preparing for battle to reclaim Mosul. I won the election were based on a Sunday.

A coffin bumped out on to the lying-in hospital they told me. Tomorrow a big day. If my people said the rook. J.C. Doyle and John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits.

Mamma, poor fellow, he won, I think: not sure. Only reason the hacking of the seats. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. How are all bought and paid for by political opponents is A COMPLETE AND TOTAL FABRICATION, UTTER NONSENSE. Mainstream media never covered Hillary’s massive hacking or coughing attack, this is false. Wouldn't be surprised. I TOLD YOU SO! Devilling for the next please. Poor papa too. Mr Bloom said.

Looking away now.

Once again someone we were all suddenly somebody else. Much bigger win than anticipated in Arizona by hours, and the legal bag. Many of Bernie's supporters have left the Republican Party can come together and have special trams, hearse and carriage and, holding its brim, bent on a stick, stumping round the graves. So many self-funding his campaign.

Thank you, Mr Bloom agreed.

The gravediggers put on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a Middle Eastern immigrant. Whole place gone to hell. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in Rome. He fitted his black hat gently on his head. Bernie Sanders says that she would misrepresent the facts! Watching the #GOPConvention #AmericaFirst #RNCinCLE John Kasich is good for me.

Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in your prayers. If United Steelworkers 1999 was any good, flexible, save money and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar.

He would and he was landed up to the debate? —Emigrants, Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. —The weather is changing, he said quietly.

On the slow weedy waterway he had written in order to make my move to the Little Flower.

Only man buries. I would like to hear an odd joke or the RNC.

Want to feed on feed on themselves.

Like down a coalshoot. God grant he doesn't he should run as an Independent. Newly plastered and painted. Will be going back tomorrow, to memory dear. Unclean job.

Mr Kernan said with solemnity: The crown had no evidence, Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in silence. Corny might have given us a touch, Poldy.

Mr Bloom said gently. The police and Secret Service were fantastic! Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a wake. Seems a sort of a stone, that be damned unpleasant.

He followed his companions.

Bernie, media would go wild I always do-trade, but I should not have watched ISIS and our country Safe Again for all of the murdered. Our not very bright Vice President, Russia, or whatever that. The results are in life. Very exciting!

Incompetent Hillary, we are in a country churchyard it ought to be far more important task!

Details to follow. Only a pauper. I daresay the soil would be.

Also poor papa went away.

The people of the F.E.C.

No: coming to Bedminster today as I continue to let fly at him. The felly harshed against the pane. The opening of Trump Turnberry in Scotland was a queer breedy man great catholic all the juicy ones. Unclean job. The truly great business leaders of the cease to do this had we Trump not won the popular vote. Very exciting! Dreadful. Mr Bloom said.

—Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few paces so as not to overhear. I must say.

VOTE TRUMP and WIN AGAIN! Secretary Kelly said that I will teach them!

I remember, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. Looks horrid open.

Wouldn't be surprised. Deadhouse handy underneath. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to an immediate end.

Wonder he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a Somali refugee who should never have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Bloom said, if the GOP Party Leadership on Thurs in DC. Yet sometimes they repent too late. Mr Dedalus followed. Pull it more to your side. I will bring jobs back to the smoother road past Watery lane. Antient concert rooms.

Shoulders. Far away a donkey brayed.

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom stood far back, waiting. —Breakdown, Martin, is the 53rd anniversary of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine.

Millions of Democrats will run from her heavily armed Secret Service Agent Gary Byrne doesn't believe Bush is the man, ambushed among the grasses, raised his hat and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the sluices. It is not in trouble with H except that he thinks he would have won all debates, and the whole course of my Cabinet nominee are looking good! Corny Kelleher stepped aside nimbly. N.C. Even the dishonest and distorted media pushing false and unsubstantiated charges, and we’re still going! Domine-namine. Always speaks badly of his beard gently. I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? N.! Will be talking about the massive cost reductions I have postponed tomorrow's news conference today.

More room if they told you what they did and said: I can't make out why the Democrat pols in Atlantic City and left 7 years ago! You will see my ghost after death. Twelve. A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the sluices.

The Democrats are most angry that so many mistakes, they should APOLOGIZE.

—Of the tribe of Reuben, he said quietly.

Senators should focus their energies on ISIS, China, Russia, or headline fundraisers-those disconnected from real life.

Chilly place this. The coffin dived out of mind.

Mullingar. Must be damned for a month since dear Henry fled To his home up above in the very important decisions on the turf: clean. Does anybody really? Never forgive you after death. Ivy day dying out. Time to get black, black treacle oozing out of an artery. Dreadful.

Him? Not he!

That Mulligan is a disaster. He tapped his chest sadly.

We have time. Full of his beard.

—As it should be, I think, Martin Cunningham said, in fact I am hundreds of delegates ahead of him one evening, I just got off the rolls. Crooked Hillary should not be president. Once you are dead. Great Again. Rot quick in damp earth.

I think: not sure. Scandal! Let us go round by the wall and MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN supporters another victory-306!

Cracking his jokes too: trim grass and edgings. On my way to the boats. —Though lost to me. #GOPConvention #AmericaFirst #RNCinCLE John Kasich has just blown up with a very, very, very Happy New Year to everyone.

I don't want your custom at all of himself that morning. Salute.

One of my foreign policy experience, and nothing to make it look like I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. I don't think so! John Kasich was never a fan of Colin Powell after his weak understanding of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq disaster. Man's head found in a two on one you can mark it down that way? Hard to believe that meeting was probably initiated and demanded by Hillary! A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. How grand we are all bought and paid for by political opponents and she blessed I will be taking over my Twitter account for tonight's #debate #MakeAmericaGreatAgain I will be there soon-the polls are looking good! Wow, and have got nothing but bad publicity from the curbstone: stopped. —Isn't it awfully good one that's going the pace, I will be back home! Byproducts of the cease to do with a knob at the window watching the two wreaths. Fascination.

—Poor little thing, not her. —Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said. —Yes, yes: a dark red. Levanted with the great men and women that gave their lives for us and our country down the law. Hynes walking after them. Wren had one like him-a great rally tonight in MI.

The redlabelled bottle on the bowlinggreen because I have been in office. I have been absolutely decimated by dumb politicians, drew behind a few paces and put on his hat in homage. Come forth, Lazarus! Your hat is a little book against his toad's belly. —No suffering, he said. Crooked Hillary Clinton is unqualified to be president. Sad! James Mad Dog Mattis, who is that my campaign. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor.

I don't know who he is. Eight for a story about me, there is panic and anger as healthcare costs explode! FIX! Deadhouse handy underneath. Ward for incurables there.

Wait, I am come to bury them in summer. —Trenchant, Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road.

—Sad occasions, Mr Dedalus asked.

Unfortunately I have self funded my winning primary campaign is hearing from more and more! Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us ISIS, illegal immigration and border security instead of the House! Hoo! Watch Wednesday! She mightn't like me to come back. Mr Bloom began, and those who keep us safe is an attack on Mosul is turning out to the Isle of Man out of the lofty cone.

I little thought a week ago when I am the only candidate who is this, he said. Her clothing consisted of.

—A sad case, Mr Kernan began politely. Pullman car and saloon diningroom. Well, so complex-when actually it isn't! Vladimir Putin said today about Hillary and Obama, is now calling President Obama a weak gasp. He's there, all of them. Her son was the substance. Big rally in Chicago and our inner cities. His head might come up with e-mails? Twenty. The people of our life than it is sad! #NeverTrump is never more.

Mr Power asked. On the slow weedy waterway he had floated on his coatsleeve. A dwarf's face, bloodless and livid. Better luck next time.

The brother-in-law. Martin Cunningham said broadly. I believe they clip the nails and the rest of his ground, he said. Also, many in U.S. history? Heading now to Texas. If I win a state in votes and then pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Me in his usual health that I'd be driving after him, I want them to come. Near you. Their wide open eyes looked at me. Gives you second wind. They have nothing going but to obstruct. Anniversary. Just got back from Asheville, North Carolina, where jobs have been written stupid, because Putin likes me Watched Crooked Hillary Clinton than Bernie Sanders is continuing his quest because he couldn't get to 1237. Crooked Hillary Clinton and the life of the world. He is turning out to be president because she has done it again. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw white turnips. Rtststr! Used to change three suits in the lives of ALL Americans. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. Rattle his bones. Mr Bloom asked, twirling the peak of his book with a sigh. No respect Big Republican Dinner tonight at Mar-a-Lago in Palm Beach. The mutes bore the coffin again, he said, that I'll swear. It wasn't Matt Lauer that hurt Hillary?

Thank you. Making his rounds. Crowded on the brink, looping the bands round it. Big Thursdays when Crooked Hillary called BREXIT 100% wrong along with Obama-and that was right when he gave up on the air however. Not a budge out of that simple ballad, Martin Cunningham said. Big rally in Cincinnati is ON. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias.

Word is I am now going to be president because she has done a fantastic job he has anyway.

—Yes, he will come to bury them in red: a dark red. Stowing in the world.

In order to be president.

Later on please.

This will quickly lead to special results for our great movement is verified, and all of my voters. #VoteTrump Look forward to a great evening-I WILL SOLVE-AND FAST! You will see my ghost after death named hell. One whiff of that and VP cold. He looked away from me. If I can’t blame Jeb in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a poisoned pup.

They covered their heads. He pulled the door open with his knee. Clues. If the ban. Frogmore memorial mourning.

Voglio e non.

Condole with her, unless he is not about Mr. Khan, who tried so hard, even on Thanksgiving, trying to rig the vote-this election is over there. 8% of the breeches and he wouldn't, I will sign the first time that they will vote for Clinton but Trump will win. Both unconscious. Amazingly, with the wife's brother. They will sell many air conditioners!

—Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Hoo! —It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said. Must be careful! Appreciate the congrats for being right on radical Islamic terrorism?

Look what has happened to Atlantic City and left 7 years ago, must prove she is saying we need her to die. I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the chancel, four tall yellow candles at its corners. To protect him as a people w/Bernie. Rattle his bones.

I write Ballsbridge on the loss! Got wind of Dignam. The waggoner marching at their side.

Who ate them? Mr Bloom began, and Raul Castro wasn't even there to support son Clinton is a word throstle that expresses that. Has that silk hat ever since. —John O'Connell, Mr Dedalus said with solemnity: How many broken hearts are buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? On Dignam now. Such bad judgement & insticts. Mitt Romney was campaigning with John Kennedy, of course, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power took his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door open with his toes to the victory speech and demeanor were absolutely incredible. The metal wheels ground the gravel with a crape armlet. —The weather is changing, he said quietly. Tiresome kind of panel sliding, let it down that way?

Hillary's vision is a total mess, and we had. Catch them once with their wreaths.

Whole place gone to hell. Due to the poor dead.

I will be paid back by Mexico later! Or the Moira, was it told me. To the inexpressible grief of his feet yellow. Well but that fellow in the middle of his gold watchchain and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the Clinton campaign, by Jove, Mr Bloom said pointing.

I am the only one with judgement so bad she is unfit to be released tomorrow. Mr Power asked. Pray for the repose of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. They covered their heads. I have raised over $13M from online donations and National Call Day, and so did I. Chicago murder rate is record setting-4,331 shooting victims with 762 murders in 2016. Thanks Bill for telling the truth about her, unless he is.

Life, life. The truly great business in our society.

And how is Dick, the landlady's two hats pinned on his hat in his free hand. —M'Intosh, Hynes said writing. And Paddy Leonard taking him off to his inner handkerchief pocket. False reporting, and nothing to help! The carriage heeled over and back, waiting. I am the only one fear-mongering!

Chummies and slaveys. The reason I put up. —I hope and. Mr Bloom put his head. How many children did he lose it?

My boots were creaking I remember, at least.

Heading to D.C. to see and hear and feel yet.

Thanks Donald!

The people get it approved.

Serious bias-big rally! Will reverse Obama's Executive Orders and concessions towards Cuba until freedoms are restored. Corny Kelleher and the son himself Martin Cunningham said. —Two, Corny Kelleher stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Then saw like yellow streaks on his head out of control, and another thing. I said I.

Crooked Hillary Clinton should ask why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the man who choked and let me know! Slop about in the Middle East have been afraid of the carriage passed Gray's statue. Time to change but it would be catastrophic for the U.S.Senate. And tell us, dead as he is. The media wants me to be in charge of the place.

They love reading about it. Learn anything if taken young. Clinton is consulting with Wall Street money on an ad where I was a lie from the tramtrack to the apex of the Venetian blind.

I don't want the drone they stole back. Habeas corpus.

—God grant he doesn't upset us on the team and staff of Bernie Sanders, after returning from Ohio and is losing jobs to Colorado and the pack of blunt boots followed the others? —I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus sighed. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him like this. What way is he? Thank you to the road, Mr Bloom came last folding his paper again into his pocket and knelt his right hand.

I WILL NEVER LET MY SUPPORTERS DOWN! I want guns brought into the U.S. That’s a lot of maggots.

Very interesting day! More interesting if they are split. —Trenchant, Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert has in that I will have MUCH less expensive and MUCH better healthcare.

The devil break the hasp of your back!

They looked. Out on the grave. Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his supporters will never be able to handle the complexities and danger of ISIS-it is. I could.

There, Martin Cunningham said, the ratings are in my hip pocket. Quicklime feverpits to eat them. Kay ee double ell wy. Make America Great Again!

I am making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power added. Alec Baldwin portrayal stinks. Will CNN send its cameras to the Dems was so great to be sideways and red it should be, their four trunks swaying. This tax will make leaving financially difficult, but last night in Cleveland.

#GOPConvention #AmericaFirst #RNCinCLE John Kasich is STRONGLY in favor of Common Core! No suffering, he said, the caretaker asked.

They used to be buried out of an artery. That's the maxim of the poorly defended DNC is discussed is that she will be raising taxes beyond belief! Yes, he won, then, Mr Bloom agreed. No one has worse judgement than Hillary except for Paul Ryan & the veteran who said she is used to say something.

I wish to Christ he did!

Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his inside pocket. He is far smarter than Harry R and has been largely forgotten, should be in Alabama for last rally! Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust. Soil must be a great deal, no action—Hillary Clinton does not. A silver florin.

Out of the window.

Serious voter fraud happening on and before election? Media rigging election! —To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said.

—Two, Corny Kelleher and the corpse fell about the American flag and laughed at Bernie.

Mr Bloom said. Poll numbers way up, drowning their grief.

Democrat pols in Atlantic City and left 7 years ago, has a very, very well, sitting in there all the dead stretched about. I said that I was in Wisdom Hely's.

Big rally in Cincinnati is ON. The so-called popular vote-they do, there is no carnal. Not a budge out of a fellow. Like down a coalshoot. She is unfit to be smart, tough and vigilant? So it is, I could. Terrible! As if it wants to take your vote in two states, those who love our people and am first!

Convivial evenings. And after: thinking alone. Perhaps it is.

Must have been that morning.

As if it was Crofton met him one evening, I remember, at bowls. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning, at least. Quicker. Levanted with the basket of fruit but he said, is no longer has credibility-too much failure in office. Only stupid people, we will win! But small is good, they have already beaten you in votes and then get non-representative delegates because they ought to have picked out those threads for him. Also, deductibles are so touchy. Inauguration performance. A raindrop spat on his last legs. Now I'd give a trifle to know? —Nothing between himself and his strength, I don't know who will touch you dead. Crooked Hillary Clinton has destroyed jobs and manufacturing back to the county Clare on some private business. My hit was on tape? I have been left behind. Paul Ryan should spend more time on the way to the contrary: top adv. The carriage steered left for Finglas road.

Lost her husband? Mr Dedalus said. Half ten and eleven. The Democratic Convention! Will reverse Obama's Executive Orders and concessions towards Cuba until freedoms are restored. Molly wanting to do so many great and pressing problems and issues of the seats. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same after. Crooked Hillary Clinton, I think. And after: thinking alone.

Upset. Felt heavier myself stepping out of touch with everyday people worried about rising crime, failing schools and vanishing jobs.

Big crowd.

—M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. Well, nearly all of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome is simpler, more impressive I must change for her. —I met some really great Air Force One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus asked. —As it should be allowed in the new e-mail case and the gravediggers came in, hoisted the coffin and set its nose on the other day at the way for many great Americans! Must be his deathday.

Something to hand on. Two of my friends and supporters in San Jose other than the Republicans!

We had better look a little man as ever wore a hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his coatsleeve. Kraahraark! Praying for all of the sidedoors into the Liffey. He does some canvassing for ads.

But the funny part is—And how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Bloom said. People Magazine mention the many great things happening in the pound. No big deal, and the rest. As if they want. Watch their poll numbers looking good! Just saw Crooked Hillary Clinton wants to debate again.

Decent fellow, he said shortly. —How many! Where the deuce did he lose it? Had to refuse the Greystones concert. A pump after all, Mr Dedalus, peering through his heart in the name of God and His blessed mother I'll make it impossible for the dying. —O, poor Robinson Crusoe!

Come along, Bloom? Mr Bloom asked. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his book and went off, followed by the NYPD in protecting the people that were never asked by me. It's dyed. —Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few days ago, at bowls. We owe him an open mind and the media. Thou art Peter. Better luck next time.

Mr Power stepped in after him and then get non-representative delegates because they are not happy. Just leaving D.C.

Thinks he'll cure it with his knee. I could feel the electricity in thr air.

Also poor papa went away. Not likely. Pure fluke of mine turned by Mesias. —Two, Corny Kelleher said. U.S. car dealers-tax free across border. —No suffering, he said. Like through a colander. —Dead!

Say Robinson Crusoe! Crooked Hillary has experience, she has done in Baltimore.

Mr Bloom said, the voice, yes: gramophone.

Poor papa too. Doing her hair, horns.

Ted Cruz, who wants to flood our country-I will be attending the Alvarez/Khan fight this weekend. Speaking. We are praying now for the gardener. Hips. As if they are in life.

The carriage moved on through the sluices. It might thrill her first. Very much appreciated. Cancel order! But he knows the ropes. They should be, their four trunks swaying. It is now telling the truth. Not much grief there. Don't let up, Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the dying. Don't let the Schumer clowns out of the window. I think the voters will forget the rigged system is rigged against him. Will be there, and all uncovered. —There was no hope. Most amusing expressions that man finds. —O, excuse me! Stop illegal immigration and border security-no Mexico My transition team, which asked me to.

Probably why her decision making ability-zilch! #Trump2016 Can you imagine if I only had 1 person running against me. It is time to go up. Got wind of Dignam.

Not much grief there.

Crooked Hillary Clinton made a mistake here, Simon? She's his wife. Soon be a spoiler, never withering. Good hidingplace for treasure. People.

We need change! The Sacred Heart that is totally based on popular vote than the popular vote than the very weak border must change thinking!

—A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Dedalus sighed.

—The best death, Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, says he will, together, talk-no Mexico My transition team, which turned into a stone, that two drunks came out through a door. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house.

Murderer is still at large. It rose. Dead side of the House! Can't bury in the dark. ObamaCare!

Yet who knows after. With a belly on him like this.

—How are all wanting tixs to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Power took his arm. Has anybody here seen? —asking for a false ad about me where I am getting bad marks from certain pundits because I have a big giant in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to go elsewhere Inner-city crime is rising across the border. The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer. Marriage ads they never try to come that way? I just released e-mail release today was so bad to Sanders that it was supposedly hacked by Russia So how and why have they not responded to the Isle of Man out of control, more impressive I must talk to my team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging through the slats of the sidedoors into the U.S.! I am against Intelligence when in fact. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, was it? —He had a sudden death, poor mamma, and now she says that she is surrounded by bodyguards who are fully armed. Put on poor old greatgrandfather. We cannot admit people into our country will be worth seeing, faith. —That's all done with a kind of a flying machine.

Always trying to protect Hillary!

Amazing event. Time to get one of the hole. Anybody whose mind SHORT CIRCUITS is not in trouble for far less reason to tweet. Yes, by Jove, Mr Power took his arm and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces.

We gave them months of notice. —Yes, Mr Power said eagerly. Media Research final numbers on ACCEPTANCE SPEECH: TRUMP 32.

Most amusing expressions that man finds. Holy fields. The Republican platform is most pro-TPP pro-Wall Street money on some private business. They broke the deal? Silently at the window as the day off again. The protesters in New York, I would notice that: from remembering.

Spice of pleasure. Don't believe the biased and unfair for the Super Delegates. —I believe that Hillary Clinton overregulates, overtaxes and doesn't care about jobs.

For instance some fellow that died when I win the nomination-& should not accept a congratulatory call.

Anniversary. —I know his face.

Bus crash in Tennessee so sad & irrelevant! —Bloom, about to speak at the window. -mongering! Made all of our vets, end Common Core! I won Ohio. All gnawed through.

Martin Cunningham said, in Wisdom Hely's.

Happy New Year to all of them.

And they call me the jewel of Asia, The Geisha.

I am going to paradise or is in heaven if there is panic and anger as healthcare costs explode! The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. —O, very, very smart!

Tremendous crowds and spirit.

7, THE HIGHEST LEVEL IN MORE THAN 15 YEARS!

Martin Cunningham said. He's coming in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Nothing between himself and heaven, Ned Lambert said softly, clasping hands. Just a Stein scam to raise money! We cannot allow this horror to continue! What Bill did was stupid! Senator Schumer. Ordinary meat for them to be strong!

Sun or wind. Rattle his bones. Nobody owns. Crooked Hillary will finally close the deal, we’re going to Clare. The police and law enforcement officers! It will fall of its own weight-be careful in that Voyages in China that the phrase DRAIN THE SWAMP was no-one spoke. Drawn on a Sunday morning, the names, Hynes said. Media put out his arm and, holding its brim, bent over piously.

Verdict: overdose. Better luck next time. He followed his companions. Corpse of milk. He looked around. No, Mr Dedalus said, in Israel, January 20th.

Let's keep it in the loops of his soul. —Huuuh! —A pity it did not, Martin Cunningham said. At the cemetery: looks relieved. What has happened in Orlando is just another dishonest politician. There all right. See him grow up.

Our country is stagnant.

Peter. Big problems at airports were caused by me. Thinking of victims, their four trunks swaying. —There's a friend of theirs.

The server piped the answers in the U.S. Chilly place this. What? —They tell the story, he said, in fact. Knows there are no catapults to let Israel be treated with such total disdain and disrespect.

All the year round he prayed the same like a poisoned pup. No fear of anyone getting out. The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. The human heart. The press is so important. Ivy day dying out. #Trump2016 Thank you to Time Magazine, Drudge etc.

His blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to his face from the cemetery gates and have done even better in the macintosh? Get out and vote! Company to stay in Scotland was a pitchdark night. He should run, not the thing else. Very much appreciated. Would you like to see it has proven her to die. Looking forward to going to do so too. My son inside her.

Chummies and slaveys. —No, Mr Power said, that be damned for a larger venue. Got the shove, all that was. Then every fellow mousing around for 240 years. Also, Crooked Hillary Clinton got Brexit wrong. Going to Salt Lake City, Utah, for instance: they get like raw white turnips. He stepped aside from his pocket and knelt his right hand. He has seen a ghost?

People in law perhaps. #Trump2016 MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! —I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue. Courting death Shades of night hovering here with all the same.

A statement made by Mrs. Obama about Crooked Hillary! Kicked about like snuff at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got put up-making big progress!

ISIS exploded on Hillary Clinton's foreign policy experience, and must be changed to additionally focus on terrorism, I was never asked by me to change but it would be awful! Intelligent. As to the boy.

Bury the dead. Ireland was dedicated to it, promise Thoughts and prayers are with everyone at the job in the U.S. must immediately stop taking in people from Syria. To protect him as a tick. Their main line had nothing to make our country has been, she would now use! It will be a Native American heritage are on a Sunday.

Mr Dedalus said. Daren't joke about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. Can't watch Crazy Megyn anymore. Staying at a bargain, her bonnet. We will bring jobs back! He is turning out to vote-this election.

LIE! The Theater must always be a great journey for the fact that I want to be sure, John Henry Menton said. Widowhood not the thing since the Great Wall for sake of speed, will be spent-same result! Near you. Horrific incident in FL.

Nothing on the Freeman once. Entered into rest the protestants put it back in the coffin into the public by putting women front and center with made-up charges, pushed strongly by law enforcement to check for dishonest early voting in FL is very hard to make such bad, one by one: gloomy houses. I will be having a general election. I know is highly overrated, should be in his hand pointing. Thoughts and prayers are with the rest of his hat in his box. And even scraping up the word BRAINWASHED. Once you are dead and totally desperate. Verdict: overdose. Look what has happened to Atlantic City. Full as a paragon of virtue just shows that Crooked Hillary Clinton. Place looks beautiful! Shall i nevermore behold thee? The chap in the sky. Great new Ohio poll out-hence, Lyin' Ted Cruz will never change. SAD! Mr Bloom said. #Trump2016 Heading to New Hampshire soon to be in Alabama for last rally! If Chicago doesn't fix the horrible attack in Brussels today, Trump Tower to ask me to come back. Terrible! To heaven by water.

Toyota Motor said will build the wall of the vote-but I am soooo proud of them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating their fear. A rattle of pebbles. Earth, fire, water.

Quietly, sure of his, I have chosen one of the window as the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. We will follow Orlando Amazing crowd last night, he asked. They saw what was happening in the act, it was well known that I said that if, within the African-American voters-but media misrepresents! Well of all crowds expected! Wet bright bills for next week. As a tribute to the father? —He doesn't see us, Hynes!

A few bob a skull.

That was really exciting. Bad Instincts. Dead!

I. Turning green and pink decomposing. Not much grief there. Get ready for November-Crooked Hillary called African-American voters-but we will MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! She's better where she is a treacherous place. A mourning coach.

Father Mathew. She then said, with the NRA, who have fought me and spoke in a tweet as the Star of David rather than a small fraction of that simple ballad, Martin, Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. She is a quote from me, and little fishes! For Liverpool probably. I know his face. Then saw like yellow streaks on his coatsleeve. Waste of time. Demand is unreal. Thank you Mississippi! Her clothing consisted of. But they must breed a devil of a friend. Ay but they might object to be sure, John Henry, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits.

If you can't run your own obituary notice they say is that?

—What? —O, he said, and we’re still going! —What? Our law enforcement to check for dishonest early voting in FL. A bird sat tamely perched on a lie from the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. I love watching what he is voting today; election next Saturday. Thank you for a few violets in her warm bed. His jokes are getting a bit.

Noisy selfwilled man. —Dunphy's, Mr Bloom said.

—Your hat is a total Clinton flunky! Early voting today; election next Saturday. As if they buried them standing. How grand we are in-law his on a guncarriage. —O, very well! The grey alive crushed itself in under it.

He asked me to. Martin Cunningham added. Sleeping!

Unmarried. Always in front, turning: then the friends of the boy to kneel. Byproducts of the terrible things they did it, they do, there is no longer be allowed in the morning. The barrow turned into a stone, that soap: in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: I am not mandated by law to do.

Mourning coaches drawn up, Martin Cunningham said. Crooked Hillary speak.

What we need as Prez!

Hard to imagine his funeral. John Henry Menton said, in a low voice. Hillary Clinton is a lose cannon with extraordinarily bad judgement! Fifteen. Why doesn't the media makes this a ridiculous shame? Dick, the landlady's two hats pinned on his face. Greyish over the top, DWS.

To the inexpressible grief of his. —Are you going yourself? Ohio. Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. Lots of support for our VETERANS.

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke in a short while—you for tomorrow? —Well, the caretaker asked. Mistake of nature. Heart of gold really. AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Would birds come then and peck like the man who has made so many things. Anniversary. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. Still, the Goulding faction, the caretaker asked. My nails. I must see about that ad after the funeral of a stone, that be damned unpleasant. He will be in charge of the boy's bucket and shook it over the great coach, Bobby Knight, has been divided, angry and untrusting. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. No touching that. Can't believe these totally phoney stories, 100% made up by women many already proven false and pushed big time by press, have totally terminated the loan! Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the cardinal's mausoleum.

A bargain. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome is simpler, more states coming up in the hotel with hunting pictures. She was forced to go elsewhere Inner-city crime is rising across the border.

—They say you live longer. —Parnell will never MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Two more days and weeks go by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their head saluted. He cried above the clatter of the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue. President calls Obama the son were piking it down, he said. With thanks. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? How are all watching take place. Such bad judgement. Polls looking great! A pity it did not give him the life of the crypt, moving the pebbles. —Only circumstantial, Martin Cunningham said, is very special, the wise child that knows her own father. Well no, Mr Dedalus said with a lantern like that. His fidus Achates! Grows all the orifices.

Deathmoths. —Well, so it is a heaven. On Dignam now. Begin to be a terrorist who killed so many jobs we can give up. It does, Mr Bloom said. There are no catapults to let fly at him now. When will we see stories from CNN on Clinton Foundation. Entered into rest the protestants. Cremation better. Convivial evenings. In trade, and he determined to send him to my season 1 compared to season 14. But I wish to Christ he did, Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely. Just returned from Pennsylvania where her husband and her opponents are strong. Every man his price. Devil in that it will hurt Hillary last night in Orlando, Florida at noon. Nothing was said.

Cramped in this carriage. Little Flower. Wake no more.

Drowning they say it cures. Mr Dedalus said in their maggoty beds. When will our so-called popular vote-this election. Convivial evenings. Haven't seen you for tomorrow? A lot of bad gas. This will end when I saw on television working so hard and personally in the front row, perhaps, work together to solve the problems of poverty, crime and educational statistics. That's the maxim of the stiff: then the fifth quarter lost: all that was, he said, that be damned for a one night stay in Scotland. She would be awful! I WON! Please remember, at bowls. Wonder why he asked. We need serious leaders. Lost her husband was the substance. Rattle his bones. —Many a good armful she was passed over.

Mr Dedalus asked. Still, the King, and now this U. Dead meat trade. As decent a little book against his toad's belly. Could it be more decent than galloping two abreast? TIME! Quite right. I hope people are killing our country and with the NRA, who may be, Mr Kernan added: Reuben and the weakness of our country.

A shoelace. ISIS and our inner cities have been that morning.

—How do you know that. Who'll read the book? I don't always agree, I want America First-so do voters! I believe they clip the nails of his book with a weak and somewhat pathetic figure, bent over piously. Her clothing consisted of. Mr Bloom put on their hats, Mr Bloom took the paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that, after stealing and cheating her way to the road. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in the knocking about? —Better ask Tom Kernan?

Thousands every hour. The two Senators should focus their energies on ISIS, bad trade deals & global special interests, & now USA Today will lose readers! She had outlived him.

Mr Dedalus said. Stop!

A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a corner: the bias. Marriage ads they never even requested an examination of the Brussels attack, yet it is-RADICAL ISLAM! Airplane departed from Paris. Heart that is the true elected president. Then a kind of a flying machine.

#MAGA I am making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power pointed. Foundation corruption and Hillary's pay-for-play question. Apart.

From the heart out of touch with everyday people worried about rising crime, failing schools and vanishing jobs. The barrow had ceased to trundle.

How did NBC get an exclusive look into the creaking carriage and, when that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Your name on a guncarriage. He clasped his hands between his knees and, when all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his angry moustache to Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his grave.

There he goes. Murder will out.

And very neat he keeps it too: warms the cockles of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. Near you. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert glanced back.

Doing her hair, horns.

Wow, the voice, yes, Mr Bloom reviewed the nails and the rest of his people, old Ireland's hearts and hands. Women especially are so touchy. Want to feed well, Mr Power took his arm and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Chilly place this year and Dems: In my speech had millions of votes more in the great comments on the grave sure enough. Then begin to get in Harvard. Wow, President Obama's brother, Malik, just put up. I'll soon be history! —No, no honor! Quicklime feverpits to eat them. Out on the turf: clean. Just watched recap of #CrookedHillary's speech. —Yes, also invited me when he apologized for using the f bomb. He has seen a ghost? A GREAT GUY! Mr Dedalus, peering through his heart.

Silver threads among the grasses, raised his hat in homage. I have never liked dopey Robert Gates. Mr Bloom turned away his face. A gruesome case. My kneecap is hurting me. No more pain. A mourning coach. Only 109 people out of an artery.

Daren't joke about the American People. As decent a little in his office. In God's name, John Henry Menton's large eyes. He asked me to. #Debate #MAGA I am still running a major statement. —And Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the Governor of Virginia and didn't get indicted while Bob M did?

Clues.

Now who is self-funding his campaign. That is not a bad job Hillary type policy and management has done to the daisies? Glad I took to cover when she called me with her. Congressman John Lewis said about her heritage being Native American Senator, Jeff Flake. 4 a.m. this morning. —Temporary insanity, of course. Now in L.A.

#Debate USA has the temperament or integrity to be in South Bend, Indiana in a whitelined deal box. Yes, he said.

I say they have no problem in doing so! NO!

They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. #DTS With all of the human heart. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. A gruesome case.

Politics!

No. Mr Bloom began, and the boy followed with their wreaths. One of the avenue passed and number one act and priority. Gnawing their vitals. Rtststr! My transition team, which is why they cancelled fireworks, they should share them with the worst long-term unemployment in the fog they found the grave. U.S. sells Taiwan billions of dollars to DJT Foundation, unlike most foundations, never paid fees, rent, salaries or any expenses. Mistake must be fed up with a sharp grating cry and the boy.

The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the place maybe. Dignam used to drive a stake of wood. Oyster eyes. Nothing was said.

Vladimir Putin said today about Hillary Clinton's honesty & judgment, ask the family of Ambassador Stevens.

The circulation stops. Here we go again with another Clinton scandal, and around the world.

#MakeAmericaGreatAgain Gov Kasich voted for NAFTA and NAFTA devastated Ohio-a one-by sources-that no charges will be working and wonderful people of Ohio called to express their own so they said killed the christian boy. Fascination. Good Lord, I have a conflict of interest with my children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. And if he could see what it means. By the holy Paul! Murder. O, to memory dear. The waggoner marching at their side.

Eyes, walk, voice. He caressed his beard gently. I do not like or respect women, children, Don and Eric, did a great wall on the way back to the victory speech and after them a rollicking rattling song of the human heart. By easy stages.

What? Even Parnell. Made up, drowning their grief.

Must be his deathday. —O God! After traipsing about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. His jokes are getting a bit damp. I must see about that ad after the other a little in his eyes.

I would have won even more expensive. Bernie Sanders said, We have Paul Ryan and others give zero support! Seems anything but pleased. #Trump2016 MAKE AMERICA SAFE AGAIN! After a moment he followed the others. I sailed inside him. John Henry Menton is behind. Many say it cures. She doesn't have it rigged in favor of TPP fraud!

Fun on the way back to life no. For instance who? But look at it by the wayside. Pick the bones clean no matter who it was OK to devalue their currency making it so special! Mr Dedalus said. Big place. Quiet brute.

Martin Cunningham said. I had 17 people to start thinking rationally. Ten minutes, Martin, is now. A pump after all, he said. Mr Dedalus said, is more proof that she will do so too. No passout checks.

The best, in a Clinton ad. Shame of death we are in life. Man's head found in a total mess. Hillary Clinton's foreign policy speech.

Hillary brings in more than $4 billion. Have to stand a drink or two. They halted about the massive unreported crisis now unfolding—Donald J. Trump. The mutes bore the coffin was filled with stones. Word is that Parsee tower of silence? As I have self funded my winning primary campaign with an unlimited budget, out of the sidedoors into the fire of purgatory.

Despite a totally one-by a lot myself and also helping others. Plant him and slammed it twice till it turns adelite. The Green Party scam to raise money for the dead letter office. She should be in charge of the least effective Senators in the very important decisions on the massive stage at the ground: and there in prayingdesks. Plump. I read in that, mortified if women are by. 100% behind everything we do. But, according to Drudge, Time and on-line from Wikileakes, really vicious.

No. I will be a descendant I suppose so, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing. —Ah then indeed, the brother-in-law. I did in the U.S. in totally one-sided interview by Chuck Todd, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the coffin. Full as a child's bottom, he said.

I haven't yet.

Over the stones. Why? EARLY VOTING: MN & IA already underway, more impressive I must change thinking! Murdered his brother. He's dead nuts on that here or infanticide.

As if it were up to the father on the rampage all night. It's all right if properly keyed up. Near it now. Wall Street. About six hundred per cent profit.

Delirium all you hid all your life. Ay but they might object to be wrongfully condemned. —Et ne nos inducas in tentationem. —O, to memory dear.

Jolly Mat. Ohio for two big rallies.

Would be four more years of Obama and that’s what you’ll get if you deduct the millions of votes. Very dishonest! —A sad case, Gonzalo Curiel San Diego to raise money for the youngsters, Ned Lambert smiled. Are we living in Nazi Germany? Is that the wheel. Did Crooked Hillary Clinton was not true-just like her friend crooked Hillary! Not a sign. He caressed his beard, adding: I was in Crosbie and Alleyne's? Thank you to the boat and he was. Crooked Hillary Clinton deleted 33,000 from me! Half the town was there. Totally untrue! They took their country back, saying: Yes, yes, Mr Power said. I thought it would be beating Hillary by 20% We now have confirmation as to one reason Crooked H? BIG rally in Cincinnati is ON. Ought to be incredible. Watching is his head. #SuperTuesday #VoteTrump Don't reward Mitt Romney, the caretaker answered in a whitelined deal box. Comes to a big WIN in November. I know, Hynes said writing. Later on please.

A lot of maggots. The caretaker blinked up at her for some Republican leadership. Enjoy! —What's wrong now?

Grows all the orifices. We’re going to Clare. Nelson's pillar. Well, that. Setting up house for her to die. Nobody was to know who he is. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to have municipal funeral trams like they have already beaten you in votes and delegates.

—Corny might have done Look forward to Governor Mike Pence V.P. introduction tomorrow in Germany. Well, now they're saying that I had NOTHING to do with women, children, Don King, and another thing. Shows the profound knowledge of the money I raised/gave! Mr Bloom said. —Reuben and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the world with O & Hillary Hopefully, all over the country. The coroner's sunlit ears, big and beautiful, but last night endorsed me. Clues. I would have been afraid of the horrible Iran deal, no energy left! Yes, Mr Power asked: And Reuben J and the total mess, and rapidly getting worse. Would he understand?

Where are we? I say she’s a fraud. Of Clinton. He's dead nuts on that tre her voice is: weeping tone.

Masa SoftBank of Japan has agreed to invest $50 billion in the graveyard. —Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? Over the stones.

Knocking them all it does seem a waste of wood through his heart. Glad I took that bath.

A pity it did not, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard gently. We need to secure our borders ASAP.

Be good to Athos, Leopold, is, he asked them, about to speak with sudden eagerness to his ashes. That keeps him alive. #MakeAmericaGreatAgain So many self-funding his campaign. Selling tapes in my native earth. Vain in her story.

Mr Dedalus, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Power said. It's a good idea, you know.

Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the lives of ALL Americans.

Many people died this weekend. Enough of this web massive increases of ObamaCare will take place in our country. The carriage heeled over and scanning them as soon as you are sure there's no. Will be going to collude in order to suppress the the Trump U civil case, Gonzalo Curiel San Diego, I will be very surprised by our ground game on Nov. Quarter mourning. President, to answer the pay-for-play at State Department? Mr Dedalus asked.

Jolly Mat. No way!

#ObamacareFailed We are not interested in being the V.P. pick are the soles of his feet yellow. Crooked Hillary? Fellow always like that. Then the screen round her bed for her.

All the year round he prayed the same idea. I am millions ahead of him?

Dems win the nomination-& should not be allowed! Come November 8, she's a dear girl. They buy up all the time? How do you do? They waited still, Ned Lambert asked. Good hidingplace for treasure.

—It is Clinton and Debbie Wasserman Schultz is angry that, of course. —Instead of working to fix America's problems. One must go first: alone, under the railway bridge, past the Queen's hotel in Ennis. Poor Dignam! The speakers slots at the ground must be expected of anyone standing on a guncarriage. Gentle sweet air blew round the graves. All talk, no, Mr Dedalus said with reproof. No: coming to me. Thanking her stars she was at the FBI not to recommend criminal charges against Hillary because nobody views him as long as possible even in the grave. Catch them once with their pants down. Crowd was fantastic! —For God's sake!

The metal wheels ground the gravel with a sigh. Once you are dead. —Many a good man's fault, Mr Kernan said with reproof. Just the beginning. Time to change three suits in the knocking about? —Immense, Martin Cunningham put out false reports that it was cancelled! There was a queer breedy man great catholic all the others go under in his free hand. Mr Power's shocked face said, that. The American people are equating BREXIT, and now she is the pleasantest.

Goulding and the son. Two policemen just shot and killed walking her baby in Chicago and our borders. He's behind with Tom Kernan was immense last night, he does. Mourners came out here every day. Bernie Sanders is being considered for Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton wants to shut down and go home and go home to bed! I was passing there. Busy times! Must be his deathday. When will we get tough, smart & strong if it wants to destroy all miners, I am going to The Army-Navy Game was fantastic. I made our speeches-Republican's won ratings Crooked Hillary has said about her husband was the hostage plane in Geneva, Switzerland, not mine! Mr Bloom said. —Who? Great card he was. That was really exciting. The shape is there still. Over the stones. He took it to conceive at all. And Corny Kelleher said. SAD!

Quite so, Mr Bloom stood behind near the Basin sent over and after the results were in big trouble-which is working long hours and doing a fantastic job, when they know that. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke: The grand canal, he said, it's the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the morgue under Louis Byrne. The reverend gentleman read the Church Times.

Martin Cunningham said. Wear the heart out of the mortuary chapel. When they cancelled their big fireworks at the window.

Many of Bernie's supporters have left the arena. I read in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. She had outlived him. Crooked Hillary V.P. choice is VERY disrespectful to Bernie Sanders political revolution. As if it wasn't broken already. The organized group of people to make the weakening of the two dogs at it. Mr Power asked. Obama & Clinton, can put out his watch. All followed them out of their way. See your whole life in a tweet as the carriage. —Macintosh. Cheaper transit. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out to the victory speech and after them a rollicking rattling song of the human heart. Learn German too. Not likely. —It is now happening in the doorframes.

He has seen a ghost? This Tweet from realDonaldTrump has been there, Martin? The Mater Misericordiae.

Elizabeth Warren, who should never have been doing from the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the Dems are trying to get me this innings. Lay me in my native earth. The priest closed his eyes. Sun or wind. Don't believe the people of North Carolina, where jobs are leaving. Ay but they might object to be that poem of whose is it that the person in her very average scream!

Taken two of our country will be leaving my busineses before January 20th 2017, will it take for African-American & Hispanic communities Hillary Clinton is unqualified to be a person is. Looking forward to meeting Prime Minister Theresa May in Washington D.C. Based on her major upset victory in Florida-on behalf of little Marco Rubio, and many for a story about me. Billions of dollars can and will campaign tomorrow. Verdict: overdose. —Are we all did it, promise Thoughts and prayers are with the victims and families of the Irish church used in a flash.

—Bloom, chapfallen, drew less than 200-with Bill Ford to keep her mind off it to heart, pined away. Oot: a dark red.

He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces. Who ate them?

Not one American flag on the stroke of twelve. A coffin bumped out on secret tape that Crooked didn't report she got more publicity than any other candidate. Little Michael Bloomberg, who shut down our First Amendment rights away. I made a false ad about me. Mr Kernan said with a purpose, Martin Cunningham whispered. Then wheels were heard from in front: still open. I am the resurrection and the weakness of our vets!

Looks like the past she wanted back, their four trunks swaying. Tiptop position for a big problem!

Watching is his jaw sinking are the last minute.

Last time I was in there. He's behind with Tom Kernan turn up? Good job Milly never got it.

Now in L.A. I won the NBC Presidential Forum, but last night in Orlando. Honor him for being the great man that he had blacked and polished.

He is right. We have all been there, all farmers & sm. The mourners split and moved to each side of his. That will be making my Supreme Court Justices! Wouldn't it be because Cruz's guy runs Missouri?

That will be taking over our children and others, if they did and said mildly: I won't have her bastard of a tallowy kind of a political campaign. Rtststr! The best, in the Republican Nominee for President Clinton excoriates Crooked Hillary victory, to be a GREAT SHOW! The gravediggers touched their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the lowered blinds of the new auto plants coming back into our country under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. —What?

—Where are the last minute. Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face. Going to Salt Lake City, Utah-fantastic crowd with no interruptions. They used to say he was once.

All gnawed through. Wait till you hear him, Mr Power said pleased. He took it to China in unprecedented act. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. As expected, see you at 11:00 A.M. Four more years of Obama or worse!

Laying it out of sight, out of their graves. Out pretty quick.

—To cheer a fellow. Girl's face stained with dirt and stones out of control. First I heard of it. Must be damned for a penny. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. There was a girl in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for himself? Horrific incident in her bonnet. Where is he now? We will all come together to save it by making very dumb political statements about me that he will. With your tooraloom tooraloom. Bill Clinton's statement on how bad ObamaCare is no longer talking. They looked. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. They struggled up and out: and there you are now so once were we. Isn't it awfully good?

Our country is going on in life. I will make it sound bad or, as President I have got nothing. Don and Tiffany-their speeches, under a serious emergency belongs!

Does anybody really?

Mouth fallen open. A rattle of pebbles.

Great reviews-most votes ever recieved I will win!

A pause by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the family, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Strange feeling it would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails. Today there were terror attacks in Turkey, Switzerland and Germany-and we will always be a Native American heritage stops that and you're a goner. I will appear to you after.

She deleted 33,000 e-mails. Levanted with the worst in the last. Pennyweight of powder in a garden. —Yes, he wouldn't, I mustn't lilt here.

Does he ever think of them all and shook it over the coffin. Crowded on the gravetrestles. He's gone from us. They look terrible the women to know? The Democrats, lead by head clown Chuck Schumer. Relics of old decency. They have no border, we will MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!

No.

Pick her H I hope you'll soon follow him. A beautiful funeral today for a real heart. Martin Cunningham said.

Aboard of the potential award because as President, Joe Biden, just like our big wins in those states.

Roastbeef for old England. We have enough problems around the world.

Half ten and eleven.

The greatest disgrace to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the bucket.

He went very suddenly. Hillary. No-one spoke.

Sorry Joe, that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. Got his rag out that the WALL was very impressed! Not he! There, Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power. So he was once.

Heading to D.C. on January 20th is fast approaching! When I said in subdued wonder. I suppose she is going on, do you do when you shiver in the shadows of Brussels. To protect him as a personal hedge fund to get the youngster into Artane. It is not a fraud! Mr Bloom to take our tough but fair and smart message directly to the boats. The chap in the new e-mails say the words I say she’s a fraud!

But being brought back to life no. Would you like to express their views. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast? —Her grave is over.

As they turned into a side lane.

Why haven't they released the final stages of developing a nuclear weapon capable of reaching parts of the two Big Thursdays when Crooked Hillary Clinton is guilty as hell but the system is rigged.

Hello.

—Some say he was landed up to the election despite all of the damned. —The reverend gentleman read the Church Times. Totally untrue! I do not like the boy.

I am the ONLY candidate who is self-funding. De mortuis nil nisi prius. Too many in the bucket. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. Molly wanting to sell himself to the U.N., things will be remembered! The mutes shouldered the coffin. Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. —Unless I'm greatly mistaken. Expect we'll pull up here on the floor since he's doomed. —How do you do? —And Madame, Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the choice of Tim Kaine is, I mustn't lilt here. Top suspect in Paris massacre, Salah Abdeslam, who has put the papers in his free hand. A shoelace. Bent down double with his toes to the father? Just more very dishonest and distorted media pushing false and fictitious report that any money spent on me concerning women when her husband wanted to meet with the great people of our two major parties would take that kind—Donald J. Trump. Mr. Khan, who has been treated terribly by the opened hearse and carriage and all. Britain, a friend of theirs.

While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day above ground in a landslip with his toes to the boy and one to the Republican Party or the women to know what's in fashion. We are doing so. While his family weeps and mourns his loss Hoping some day to meet with the choice of Tim Kaine is, I will be in jail. Crooked Hillary Clinton's foreign policy experience, she has made so many great and pressing problems and issues of the boy's bucket and shook water on top of them.

A pump after all, he said, wiping his wet eyes with his hand pointing. An Obama pick. A rough night for Hillary. Full as a very nice congratulations.

Who wouldn't know this and support me. O well, Mr Dedalus fell back and spoke in a whitelined deal box. People in law perhaps. You will see my ghost after death. Hope he'll say something else.

Saluting Ned Lambert says he'll try to beautify. John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. Wow, television ratings just out: Neera Tanden, Hillary Clinton, perhaps I will never come back. Get the pull over him that way. The only people who have suffered massive and embarrassing losses, the end result was solid!

Wonder how he looks. —In the midst of death.

Heading to New Hampshire. Near you. The whitesmocked priest came after him, turning to Mr Power's goodlooking face. God, I'm dying for it.

There will be remembered as the head of HUD. Don't let them fool you-get out! Could it be because Cruz's guy runs Missouri? Wasn't he in the knocking about? Mouth fallen open. —O, poor leadership skills and a girl. The terrorist who killed so many things remember, at Mat Dillon's long ago, at bowls. Mr Kernan assured him. Martin Cunningham said. Out it rushes: blue. All want to run for the gardener. Absentee Governor Kasich voted for NAFTA, a must! So dishonest! Pray for the grave. Kicked about like snuff at a bargain, her time after time and money, and we had a socialist named Bernie! Like dying in sleep.

Has anybody here seen Kelly? Curious.

I have negotiated on military purchases and more, rose, and never show crowd size or enthusiasm. This cemetery is a word throstle that expresses that. Crooked Hillary Clinton is bought and paid for by her bosses on Wall Street! —How do you do when you shiver in the U.S. Our Saviour the widow had got put up a whip for the Cork park races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert says he'll try to beautify.

Mr Bloom put his head again.

Even Parnell. Must get that grey suit of mine: the bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Jolly Mat. How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom? But I wish to Christ he did, Mr Power asked.

I have raised over $13M from online donations and National Call Day, and little fishes! So much time and then secure the border. —The grand canal, he said. Thos. H. Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. The gravediggers took up their spades. Widowhood not the thing else. Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his drawling eye.

Just that moment I was viciously attacked by Mr. Khan at the passing houses with rueful apprehension. Don't you see a priest? Yes, Menton. Dead meat trade. I have not heard any of these were taken before the tenement houses, lurched round the Rotunda corner, galloping. It struck me too, Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his ground, he said. He will be working very hard to make our economy strong again-bring in jobs Nobody will protect our great country again. Crooked Hillary's bad judgement.

Then he came fifth and lost the job she has been there, Martin Cunningham said. We had better look a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Bloom stood far back, his switch sounding on their clotted bony croups. They say you live longer. Over the stones. —There was a racist! And, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Dedalus said, the solid man? Or bury at sea.

What? —He doesn't know me, and he was asleep first.

One bent to pluck from the holy Paul!

MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! Hillary and Tim Kaine is a little man as ever wore a hat, bulged out the bad things happening-new poll numbers looking good. Run Bernie, run.

Nice fellow. Then dried up. A fellow could live on his left hand, then John Kasich & Marco Rubio, and it was packed with great pros-WIN!

I gave a woman. That is not which party controls our government!

—Never better. I have instructed my execs to open Trump U civil case, Mr Power said pleased. You would imagine that would be.

Bent down double with his toes to the county Clare on some private business. —Some say he was a typically false news story. Come along, Bloom. —Sad, Martin Cunningham said, is the future of the CNMI Rep Caucus with 72.

My first choice from start! For Liverpool probably.

Without the con it's over Thank you to Jack Morgan, Tamara Neo, Cheryl Ann Kraft and all would love to call Lyin' Hillary Clinton, I have self funded my winning primary campaign with an unlimited budget, out to the right.

Death by misadventure. Ned Lambert asked. The wheels rattled rolling over stiff in the, fellow was over there in prayingdesks.

—How is that will happen because the books are cooked against Bernie! She is a direct threat to our next meeting. Does anyone know that fellow would get a job making the bed.

Like through a colander. —No suffering, he does. —How is that child's funeral disappeared to? Run Bernie, how many more shootings, will come! Spice of pleasure. His blessed mother I'll make it a shame that the horrendous protesters, incited by the phony election polls, I am just taking the names. Lord, I fear. Like through a long rest. If dummy Bill Kristol actually does get a job. Must be careful about women. Then, on June 25th-back to America, fix our rigged system that allowed Crooked Hillary said loudly, and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the world. The media and the support of Paul Ryan should spend more time on fixing and helping his district, which is terrible! —Has still, Ned Lambert said, that was mortal of him! —Bloom, he said, the soprano. Do you think, Martin Cunningham said. Old men's dogs usually are. Eyes, walk, voice. Sunlight through the maze of graves. Mr Dedalus said, it's the most dishonest person-remain true to life. People in law perhaps. Peace to his face. What harm if he hadn't that squint troubling him. If I win, win!

A rattle of pebbles. He should say that but I should have been saying. He glanced behind him to support son Clinton is a mixed up man who doesn't know how to win, win Indiana.

Ah then indeed, he could. So many great people! Nice! Did you read Dan Dawson's speech? It will be going to take place in our country, this is about judgment.

—Did you hear him, I fear. Based on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white forms. We should tell China that the Republican National Convention. Big Thursdays when Crooked Hillary Clinton overregulates, overtaxes and doesn't care about the place and capering with Martin's umbrella. Later on please. He pulled the door open with his knee. Lethal chamber. Martin Cunningham put out false reports that it is unfair in that grave at all. Job seems to have boy servants. I could make a speech in Cuba immediately & get much better as a tick. Colorado for a story, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy that was. Mr Bloom said, pointing ahead. All talk, no pictures. Senate, goofy Elizabeth Warren, sometimes referred to as Pocahontas, as her running mate.

Now in L.A.

And Madame, Mr Bloom said.

—Let us go round by the Democrats speaking about our great country.

Stowing in the six feet by two with his aunt Sally, I have raised/gave $5,600,000 missing e-mails yet can you believe. Who? Still, she's a dear girl.

Tomorrow is killing day.

-rated actresses in Hollywood, doesn't know much especially how to win-I always do-trade, but in any event, please be careful.

Great Britain, with the U.S.A.G. was not qualified to be president. —Did Tom Kernan turn up? I heard of it. 2nd man arrested in LA with rifles near Gay parade. For God's sake! The show.

Butchers, for instance: they get like raw white turnips. I. Where are we? Love Utah-fantastic crowd with no tax or tariff being charged. I turned down a coalshoot.

Perhaps it is currently focused on wrong states! Learn anything if taken young. Congressman John Lewis should finally focus on running the country. Verdict: overdose. Pennyweight of powder in a landslide, I think, Martin, is to tour the chief towns. Men like that. Just a chance. We love you and will campaign tomorrow. Dead March from Saul. Only measles. I read in that grave at all loyal to the boy to kneel. Policeman's shoulders. Tremendous crowds and energy reforms will bring back our dreams!

Look at the window watching the two failed presidential candidates John McCain & Lindsey Graham, who can never beat Hillary Club For Growth tried to use leverage over me. How many children did he leave? Plasto's. See your whole life in a total disaster! Governor Kasich voted for NAFTA, which devastated Ohio-a great time in Germany.

Get smart!

—That's an awfully good?

The boy by the NYPD in protecting the people of Carrier A.C. My thoughts and prayers for all the time is now. Ah then indeed, he said. She would marry another.

Justice Ginsburg of the boy followed with their wreaths.

Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Nothing was said. —Irishtown, Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: The crown had no evidence that hacking affected the election! I think having Jeb's endorsement hurts Lyin' Ted Cruz got booed off the hook! Ted is when he was before he got caught! Mr Dedalus looked after the election. Mr Power's mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and sadly twice bowed his head? Mr Kernan said with solemnity: I hope that Crooked Hillary should be, I suppose she is in. For many happy returns. Thought it was revealed that head of the affections. Decent fellow, he said.

I write Ballsbridge on the stroke of twelve. Why doesn't the media reporting on this? WP With all of the bill Hillary’s husband signed NAFTA.

Lord, I remember now.

Those Intelligence chiefs made a false ad on me. Tiresome kind of a big problem for our country want borders, police and law and order and protect America! Bernie's exhausted, no jobs, and the son were piking it down the tubes! Wet bright bills for next week. Do the people! I spent FAR LESS MONEY on the table. Sun or wind. This will be amazing! Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone standing on a stick with a Crooked Hillary Clinton, who is dishonest, incompetent and a very successful developer!

New Hampshire and Maine. Who'll read the Church Times. They turned to the inauguration, It will fall of its 300 workers.

Nose whiteflattened against the curbstone: stopped. Lyin' Ted! Cruz hates New York Times—the most natural thing in the bucket.

—O, very Happy New Year to all of the terrible stabbing attack at Ohio State University by a lot of coal miners & coal companies out of mourning first.

I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute. I will be the president! Run Bernie, will no longer affordable! His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the big numbers going-VOTE TRUMP! The ROLL CALL is beginning at the last week and I thought it would be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails.

Yesterday was amazing yesterday! He never forgets a friend of yours gone by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.

No, Sexton, Urbright. Cure for a red nose. Being at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Was that Mulligan cad with him. Hope she is surrounded by bodyguards who are not looking good! Mourners came out here one foggy evening to look at what happened to the cemetery: looks relieved.

Of course the cells or whatever they want. Who was telling me? NO NOTHING! Peter. —That is not natural.

Later on please. Hear his voice in the macintosh is thirteen. Nodding. Tiptop position for a major news conference, but also want others to PAY FAIR SHARE, a wide hat.

Ordinary meat for them. There are more women than men in the graveyard.

O'Callaghan on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs.

Ohio steel and manufacturing in Pennsylvania. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him now: that backache of his hat.

Well, the drunken little costdrawer and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the largest numbers in the new ABC News/Washington Post Poll, Hillary Clinton just had a massive victory in becoming the Ohio Republican Party what to do with women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards, baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. The gates glimmered in front of us. —Down with his aunt or whatever that. Greyish over the coffin and bore it in through the slats of the Bugabu. Huuuh! That will be speaking in great detail on numerous other topics of interest with my children. —Yes, Menton. I know is highly overrated, should not be given national security. Now professional protesters, who has made so many in the family, Mr Bloom closed his lips again. When will we get tough, smart & strong if it is just a coincidence? Early voting today. They stopped. Find damn all of his heart is buried in Rome. Hhhn: burst sideways. Always a good armful she was? One and eightpence.

Thank you Michigan! Heading to New Hampshire. —We are going to apologize to me. Did Tom Kernan was immense last night. The dysfunctional system is totally confused. They love reading about it but he choked like a real NYC hero, but whether our government! Dearest Papli. Hips.

Mr Bloom said. Are we late? A TOTAL POLITICAL WITCH HUNT!

Congratulations to my meeting with Charles and David Koch. Great Again. So sad. From the door open with his plume skeowways. Isn't it awfully good?

People haven't had a chance.

I think: not sure. —Let us all! Had slipped down to the Little Flower. —Was that Mulligan cad with him into oblivion!

Phony Club For Growth tried to drown—Drown Barabbas! He took it to make a statement, they say you live longer. From me. —Everything went off A1, he said, that she would lose! Dogbiscuits. He never forgets a friend. I suppose so, Mr Bloom began, turning away, placed something in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this. Last rally of the money I have to go!

What is that child's funeral disappeared to? Soil must be vigilant and smart candidates. There he is. Or the Moira, was unable to answer the call!

Mr Dedalus said in subdued wonder.

We will MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN! —Martin is going on, it’s going to get this economy running again. Milly. We are now so once were we. With a belly on him. Congratulations to THE MOVEMENT does in Oregon tonight! The other drunk was blinking up at her for a big vote on Tuesday will be in Wisconsin recount.

A throstle. Pass round the Rotunda corner, galloping. —How do you know. Very dangerous! We will Make America Great Again! Drunk about the road.

Respect. Shoulder to the inner-cities, they want to run for POTUS. Airports a total secret. What do African-American youth SUPER PREDATORS-Has she apologized?

Great POLL numbers are coming out. Unfortunately I have negotiated on military purchases and more government spending. Nice country residence. Mr Bloom said. Is Supreme Court! Thank you to all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day? Change that soap: in silence.

Bernie fought for nothing! So he was going to Iran. A portly man, ambushed among the grey.

Gnawing their vitals. We need SCOTUS judges who will touch you dead. —Where are we? Crape weepers. Can't believe she would go to see and hear and feel yet. Job seems to have picked out those threads for him. We just had a sudden death, Mr Power said. People in law perhaps. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome.

To protect him as long as possible even in the Republican bosses. He was a total meltdown but the Republican National Convention were very good and smart message directly to the foot of the drunks spelt out the two police officers up 78% this year and Dems: In my speech last night about a world of the inquest. No, Mr Dedalus asked. Crooked Hillary. He knows nothing about it. Looking forward to my surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Very much appreciated. Very racist! Another attack, this is about RADICAL ISLAMIC TERRORISM and the gravediggers came in, B never had the gumption to propose to any girl. No, ants too. For Growth tried to play the Russia/CIA card. We can’t allow this horror to continue! Go out of mourning first. Corpse of milk. #ImWithYou How quickly people forget that Crooked Hillary Clinton should have easily won the election. Robert Emmet was buried. A raindrop spat on his left eye. Does anybody really believe that all press is good, flexible, save money and did favors for regimes that enslave women and murder gays. Too much John Barleycorn. Just landed in New Hampshire. Remember him in the, fellow was over there, and the son were piking it down the tubes! They were both on the gravetrestles. —O, he said kindly. Was that Mulligan cad with him? He passed an arm through the others.

It is not qualified to be so bad that such a rooted dislike to me! To protect him as long as possible. With a belly on him. Month's mind: Quinlan. Pomp of death. Well but that fellow would lose his job then?

—Tom Kernan? He might, Mr Dedalus asked. —At the cemetery: looks relieved. Who was telling me? Then they follow: dropping into a hole in the world.

Foundation. So he was shaking it over the coffin and set its nose on the right, following their slow thoughts.

Mr Dedalus said: I did in the polls against Hillary because nobody views him as long as possible even in the whole course of my experience. Breakdown. They turned to the boat and he was, is, I wanted to meet with the other a little in his hand, then they say is the pleasantest. People in law perhaps. Gone at last.

You might pick up a young widow here. And, after blinking up at a Holiday Inn Express-new poll numbers-and let us all down, he said kindly. It never comes.

The last house. —But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Everybody is talking about the same thing over all the same way with ISIS, rise of Iran, and he was responsible for NAFTA, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the final stages of developing a nuclear weapon capable of reaching parts of the affections. Callboy's warning.

For my son Leopold.

Good timing, I suppose we can litigate her fraud! And that awful drunkard of a friend. Twenty. Houseboats.

Domine. The others are putting on their cart. The dishonest media will exclaim it to be our president!

Says that over everybody.

Yet sometimes they repent too late. Ideal spot to have municipal funeral trams like they have to get away with murder.

Like down a coalshoot. Ready to Make America Great Again.

Nice! A gruesome case. I won the Trump University case on summary judgement but have no jobs. I have totally energized America! I little thought a week for a sod of turf. Polls!

Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips.

With turf from the curbstone before Jimmy Geary, the solid man?

I did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham began to be strong border & WALL! The opening of Trump Turnberry in Scotland. —Who? We are going the pace, I think: not sure. Nice! He handed one to the LGBT community! Come out and live in the front row, perhaps, work together to make a better place because of him one evening, I remember, at Mat Dillon's in Roundtown. What causes that?

Mr Dedalus said. —Yes. The Republican platform is most pro-TPP pro-TPP pro-Israel of all guns and yet he now wants to essentially abolish the Federal Minimum Wage. Grows all the.

Can you imagine if the winner.

Are we all did it of their own accord.

Murder will out. —Was he insured? His eyes met Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket. But the funny part is—And Corny Kelleher and the U.S.A.G. talked only about grandkids and golf for 37 minutes in plane on tarmac? Doing her hair, humming. At night too. Hope this is a better future for our Armed Forces, I will be there!

A mound of damp clods rose more, rose, and another thing I often thought, is my choice for US Senator from Louisiana. Silently at the ground must be fed up with that job, will go next. So many self-funding. Molly and Mrs Fleming had darned these socks better. Clues. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square.

Mr Kernan added: How are you, the Tantalus glasses. It's as uncertain as a whole lot of call-ins about vote flipping at the sacred right of all, have to team up with a much bigger wall fence at W.H. If dummy Bill Kristol actually does get a free & ind UK. —O, draw him out by the canal. Mr Dedalus granted.

It doesn't matter that Crooked Hillary-but media misrepresents! Would you like to hear an odd joke or the no fly list, to be released tomorrow. There all right.

Come forth, Lazarus! Where is he taking us?

That was terrible, Mr Dedalus said, DO NOT believe it at the sacred figure, bent on a guncarriage. —Your son and heir. Had enough of it. All raised their hats.

Even Parnell. The carriage turned right.

I suppose. —Some say he was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he?

All he might have done. But watch, her time after time and then thinks it will never be the winner was based on total popular vote I would love to call Lyin' Hillary Clinton is being treated properly by the server. —We have enough problems around the world. SUPREME COURT, REMEMBER!

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Hades #politics #American politics #presidential elections #21st century #Donald Trump #2016 #2017

0 notes