Monday, June 03, 2013
Various Names
“St-r-o-”
“You're correct there, old chap.”
“k-k-k.”
“Yes, a stroke. Don't say anymore. I know what
to do,” Nigel reassured. He was on a kind of
sabbatical from Queens College Hospital, London.
Jiffy Cripps, the driver, yelled after a half hour,
"I'm almost stuck here. Creeping! They think our
siren and lights are for the Little League kids--
they won the State and are going to Williamsport.”
“I imagine that's good then?”
“Where you been?”
“England.”
“Why in hell did you come here?”
“For a woman. What else?”
“I'll get the fire guys on the radio. They'll
clear a path for us.”
“Don't bother now. He's gone.”
“That’s above your pay grade to say that.”
“Perhaps, but I am actually a physician.”
“So you went a notch or two down to come
here, right?”
“Of course! Transatlantic Idiot! you glimpse
before you.”
“Just who is this wom...?"
“Celeste Broadworth.”
“Oh yeah? That's some family! The old man shot
dead a Chinese guy in bed with wifey.”
“Really must inquire of Celeste, if ever again we...!
This traffic!”
“Well, never was a bigger story around here.”
Unknown, of course, to both, Ripper Broadworth
was also threading his way through the celebration.
In a Mercedes, having been pardoned that morning.
Jif started absently singing some old thing from
The Stones. His mother had wrestled under the name
Darlyne Dire.
“St-r-o-”
“You're correct there, old chap.”
“k-k-k.”
“Yes, a stroke. Don't say anymore. I know what
to do,” Nigel reassured. He was on a kind of
sabbatical from Queens College Hospital, London.
Jiffy Cripps, the driver, yelled after a half hour,
"I'm almost stuck here. Creeping! They think our
siren and lights are for the Little League kids--
they won the State and are going to Williamsport.”
“I imagine that's good then?”
“Where you been?”
“England.”
“Why in hell did you come here?”
“For a woman. What else?”
“I'll get the fire guys on the radio. They'll
clear a path for us.”
“Don't bother now. He's gone.”
“That’s above your pay grade to say that.”
“Perhaps, but I am actually a physician.”
“So you went a notch or two down to come
here, right?”
“Of course! Transatlantic Idiot! you glimpse
before you.”
“Just who is this wom...?"
“Celeste Broadworth.”
“Oh yeah? That's some family! The old man shot
dead a Chinese guy in bed with wifey.”
“Really must inquire of Celeste, if ever again we...!
This traffic!”
“Well, never was a bigger story around here.”
Unknown, of course, to both, Ripper Broadworth
was also threading his way through the celebration.
In a Mercedes, having been pardoned that morning.
Jif started absently singing some old thing from
The Stones. His mother had wrestled under the name
Darlyne Dire.
Labels: death, emergency, English, infidelity, Little League, murder, Stones, traffic
