“Do you think they laughed at Hitler, Barnaby?”
Cecil and I, at our regular huddle over swish porridge, more risotto in Cecil’s case, discussing current events. A couple days after the former president’s indictment and charges under the Espionage Act over all the classified and Top Secret documents stashed away throughout his gilded empire including, tongues have wagged, buried with his ex-wife on his New Jersey golf club. 
Or maybe that was just about the tax breaks. Continue reading
[Some more serialized fiction, starting at the beginning with no end in sight. Look, ma. No hands! This one, at least, has an actual title. Enjoy.]
* * *
Hate pays.
Hate pays handsomely if you hate right, hate deep enough.
Do you hate deep enough?
Do you hate deep enough to earn enough?
Mr. Lucian, surnames on a need-to-know basis, founder and creative head of The Cleft, a.k.a. Hate Inc., a multi-tentacled ‘conglomerate of uncomfortable and unnerving ideas’, digital media purveyors, information disrupters, event planners, teaching academy, The Cleft School, back to the classics, ‘where the antiquities never go out of style’, that Mr. Lucian, leading a seminar for carefully vetted initiates. How to Stuff A Pocketful With Hate: Embracing Your Inner Antipathy. Continue reading
“What would you say, Barnaby, if I told you I’d popped a little LSD before coming out on our walk today?”
“I’d say, Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out, you dirty old hippie.”
Elsie laughs.
That’s nice. Laughter’s been a rare commodity for her since her husband Phillip took ill and died in quick order earlier this year. Requiescat in pace. That’s all she wrote. Continue reading