“Sit, sit,” he motioned me to remain seated. He didn’t sit. Six-foot-three and about fifty years old, he was dressed in a blue shirt and tie, black pants and black sandals. Big Boy stood in the doorway beside him. “I’m sorry that I’ve brought you here this way; powerlessness isn’t pleasant, is it? Do you believe in freedom, Mr. Chandler?” After a thoughtful moment I “I’m sorry, I can’t figure out why you’d ask me such a stupid question.” Ten seconds later I was hanging over the edge of the boat, grateful that Big Boy had really strong hands.
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
0 comments:
Post a Comment