This is the continued story of
Simon’s Journal.
I would highly recommend you read the first volume of this story,
Simon’s Journal
Thirteen Days – The First Crusade
before you begin this novel.
The following narrative is nearly a complete work of
fiction.
Any similarity to actual individuals living or dead is completely
unintentional.
If reading a coming of age story about boys wearing diapers and exploring their
awakening sexuality is offensive or illegal in your
area, then might I suggest you
go read War and Peace or something equally
stimulating.
Simon's Journal
Volume II
Thirteen
Nights – After the Crusade
Written by
Danny
Author of Thirteen Days
Part 2 – Friday, March 12, 2004 –
The Pit of Despair
I didn’t have to wait very long before Mr. Wriggle, who had been
standing facing his wife, now spun himself around with an finger extended as
though he were wielding a gun and spat out. “Empty your pockets!” the words
seemed to explode from his mouth as if from a cannon causing his red face to
quiver from the reverberation.
Immediately, all of the boys thrust their hands into their
trouser pockets and pulled them inside out. Anything that might have been
residing in anyone’s pockets was then laid on the table before each boy. Still
in a daze, I mimicked the actions of the others and pulled out my own trousers'
pockets. They were empty of course, but I was surprised to see that others from
around the table were not.
Pitiful evidence of young boys' interests appeared on the table:
a bent nail, several uninteresting pebbles, a length of dirty twine, a medium
sized black feather probably from a crow, a shared of blue glass, a chain made of
assorted paperclips, a faded and worn photograph and several bits of torn
paper.
I could not help but notice that there was only one thing that
was dug from a pocket that had any value at all; it was a quarter. It was not
bright, not new, and was tarnished and dented, but nonetheless a quarter.
It had come from Micky's pocket, and it now lay on the table in
front of him. Well, not quite in front of him since at dinner he had been
sitting next to me, it now lay halfway between him and me, or close enough to
halfway that who could tell the difference?
A quarter! A miserable little, near worthless, quarter! However,
at that moment, in this horrible place, it seemed to be more important than a
stack of hundred dollar bills or a bar of solid gold.
Standing
at the head of our long table stood Mr. and Mrs. Wriggle looking out over the
boyish treasures, "Are you ready my love?" asked Mr. Wriggle in his
almost normal sounding voice.
"Oh
yes, quite ready!" replied Mrs. Wriggle while still holding a napkin over her
mouth and nose as though at any moments she might be sick again.
The
two of them proceeded down the sides of the table, Mrs. Wriggle taking the far
side while Mr. Wriggle, with hands behind his back, took up the position
opposite his wife, which happened to be the same side I was on.
Both
sets of narrowed eyes were darting sharply from boy to boy and examining the
objects that had found their way onto the table from some unfortunate boy's
pocket.
Slowly
they made their way down the table. I was not thinking about the quarter at
this point but was thinking how glad I was that my bowl, with the rock hard
lump of oatmeal, had already been spirited away.
I
glanced across the table at the boys in front of me. Every pair of eyes was
fixed on the quarter lying on the table between Micky and I. It was as if they
were attempting to will it away but it did not budge, and then I heard Mr.
Wriggle come to a stop directly behind us. Across the table stood Mrs. Wriggle,
an icy statue with eyes fastened on Mr. Wriggle anxiously awaiting his next
action.
A
terrible, expectant silence fell over the room. It seemed the very walls had
stopped breathing and were listening to to drama as it played itself out.
I,
for one, was no longer enjoying the evening’s performance. “Okay, I’m ready to
change the channel now! Who has the TV Clicker?” I thought in a failed attempt
to lighten my own mood.
I
heard Micky suck in a quick breath and hold it, so I did the same since I did
not knowing what to expect. I later figured out that he was just panicing.
"And
what have we here?" Mr. Wriggle extended his hand between Micky and i so
that he could bang his fat knuckles on the table a fraction of an inch away
from the quarter.
Thump,
Thump, Thump, Thump, went his
knuckles, four times before being withdrawn with a snap of his fingers.
"My
love? Doesn’t that look like capital to you?" Mr. Wriggle asked.
“Huh?”
I thought to myself, “What’s capital’?”
In
a shrill throaty squeal she replied, "Yes, yes it does indeed!" she had
pushed herself between two of the boys opposite Micky.
Continuing
their little game, Mr. Wriggle raised his voice loud enough for all to hear and
asked, "And are Bancheli boys supposed to have capital?"
With
a snort of laughter behind her hand, Mrs. Wriggle replied, "Absolutely
not!”
His
voice changed to sound very animal like, “And yet my dear wife, it seems that a
Bancheli boy, in fact, does have capital!”
Mrs.
Wriggle snorted louder this time, “Oh but which one?” She was obviously
enjoying this too much as her gaze kept jumping from me, to Micky and back to
me.
Mr.
Wriggle paused to slam his fist down on the table so forcefully between Micky
and I that the quarter flew up and returned trembling to the table with a
clatter. "Now I expect a declaration at once.” I felt several blasts of
spittle hit my right ear and cheek but somehow I managed to keep my hand from
attempting to wipe it away as I wondered what he meant by ‘declaration”.
That
darn voice inside my head chose this moment to speak up, “Uh, don’t know what
it means but get me a dictionary and I will look it up!”
“Oh
hush you!” I mentally chastised the voice and surprisingly it did.
When
no one volunteered any information Mr. Wriggle shouted so loud that I though my
eardrum might burst, “Who’s is this?”
It
seemed like a century passed as I waited for Micky to confess, but it was
actually no more than the time measured by a few quivering heartbeats before a
trembling voice, barely audible answered, "I-it’s m-m-mine."
The
voice inside my head screamed, “What the hell are you doing boy?”
“What
are you talking about?” I asked the voice.
“That
quarter isn’t yours!” the voice continued to scream.
“I
know that!” I thought back, confused as to why the voice was yelling at me too.
"Did
you hear that my love?" asked Mr. Wriggle, his voice now returning to
normal, "It belongs to our newest wee lil’ tot.” and he made a giggling
sound that was obviously fake before grabbing my right shoulder and spun me
around so that my legs twisted around themselves, “What is your name?”
Now
I was really confused and I grunted to show this fact to my inquisitor, “Huh?”
“Your
name? What is your name boy?” He repeated as his spittle landed on my cheek
just below my left eye.
For
half a second I nearly blurted out, “Simon!” but just as the ‘S’ was about to
roll off my tongue I managed to catch myself and instead said, “S-S-R-Ron,”
though so softly that I hardly heard it myself.
In
a strangled cry Mr. Wriggle screamed into my face, “WHAT?”
“R-R-Ron!”
I said louder but still hardly loud enough to be heard.
I
could see out of the corner of my eye that Mrs. Wriggle appeared to be
positively enraptured while watching her husband interrogate someone as
dangerous as myself.
Mr.
Wriggle had straightened himself back to a more dignified poster and pulling on
the lapels of his coat he said, “Well my delightful buttercup! It appears that
the culprit is R-R-Ron,” he was mocking my stutter, “the newest addition to our
little family. Further more he has admitted to the crime of thievery."
“Crime?
What Crime?” I wanted to shout but somehow managed to hold my tongue.
Bending
toward me again he put his mouth so close to the side of my face that I
received the full effect of a breath that might well have come from an inhabitant
of a swamp. "And where, may I ask, did you obtain this coin, Ron?"
"I
... I ... I . . ." I tried to answer but faltered.
"Well?
Come—come, where?" ask Mrs. Wriggle shaking me violently.
"I
... I f-f-f-found it!" I blurted out as best I could and not really
knowing what else to say while thoughts of ‘why’ were still whirling within my
head.
“Oh
you did, did you? And, of course, you put it right into your pocket to keep for
yourself,” he patted the front pocket of my pants was several times as he spoke
and I couldn’t help but notice his fingers were dangerously close to my boyhood
parts, “instead of seeing that it came to Mrs. Wriggle and myself as you should
have done?"
Not
knowing if I was supposed to answer that or not, I chose to keep quite.
Without
removing his hand from the front of my pants he asked, "What do you think
of that, Mrs. Wriggle? A Bancheli boy fallen into evil, thieving ways and not
here two full days. We feed him, clothe him, give him a bed and teach him and
what thanks do we get for such kind-hearted treatment?” I was so glad when he
stopped speaking and lifted himself back to an erect posture once again.
With
a heavy, exhale through his nostrils he continued, “The question is – what are
we to do about it, eh?” which was then followed by a long pause before deciding
to ask his wife for a suggestion.
“Would
you . . .” he started to say but stopped himself mid-sentence. The way he had
suddenly stopped made me think that maybe Mrs. Wriggle had somehow managed to
pass a thought to him. I had not been looking at her at the time so I imagine
that since I did not hear her utter even a peep, she must have signaled with
her eyes or something. Whatever the method of transmission, Mr. Wriggle had
received it and in mid-sentence changed his mind about what it was he was going
to say.
“Ah
yes, right then! Do you think a touch of the pit might be in order, my dear
Snookems?" He asked while patting both sides of my face from behind me.
Just
the re-mentioning of the dreaded pit, whatever that could be, had once again
turned Dear Snookems a rather nice shade of grass green. Through lips tightened
over clenched teeth, she partially lowered her hand away from her mouth, sucked
in her breath with revulsion and with eyes glittering madly with anticipation
she answered, "Yes! Most certainly!"
I
was suddenly frightened out of my skin, as were Mrs. Wriggle and most to the
other boys when Mr. Wriggle exploded with, “CHO! DAM YOU GIRL WHERE ARE YOU?”
The
force of his voice was so strong that I could have sworn I felt the floor shake
beneath me.
With
the gentle insertion of, “Hemm, Hemm,’ by Mrs. Wriggle he was reminded that
he’d only just sent Cho off with the other boy to hose him down.
Releasing
my face and stepping to his right I could now see him again. "Oh . . . uh
. . . right then!” He put his closed fist to his mouth as though he had coughed
but he had not. “Yes, forgot is all!” and he waved a hand in the air as if he
were wiping his words off a school chalkboard, “Well, then, if you will remain
to make the changes?" He said as charmingly as if we were all at a tea
party. "Oh certainly!" She answered back equally as charmingly and
with a new expression on her face, “And, don’t let this one fall in?” she added
smuggly while leaning across the table and snatching up the quarter.
With
excruciating force, Mr. Wriggle had seized the base of my skull and once again
dawning the vocal guise of some animalistic beast, he snarl into my ear,
"Now, move boy!"
Being
dragged by my neck, I clogged along in my oversized shoes and felt certain that
my shuddering legs would fail me at any moment; the only thing that kept me
from falling, aside from Mr. Wriggle holding my neck as the fear of what he
might do if I suddenly fell to the floor in a heap. I was led from the dining
hall and through the kitchen where Fyer was sitting on an overturned pot, while
smoking a stinky cigar nearly the size of an average boys arm. The look Fyer
gave at the sight of us entering his kitchen was one of pure loathing. When
Fyer picked up a butchers knife with his left hand and quietly laid it in his
lap, Mr. Wriggle gave me a thrust out one of the two other doors.
We
were scarcely passed the dreaded hallway painting of my two hosts when a door
to our left swung open and out strode Cho with a youthful boy cowering directly
behind her. At first, I think I was stunned and a little embarrassed to have
Cho and this boy observing me dancing there on the tips of my shoes while
suspended by my neck from Mr. Wriggles firm grip.
I
was staring right at the boy, who was doing his best to remain hidden behind
Cho and seeming to be very interested in the floor beneath his bare feet. I could
only guess that this pail young boy was the same poop covered boy who had
caused such a scene during dinner. His blonde hair was still damp and plastered
to his head, while his pale white frame seemed to glow brilliantly in the
faintly lit passage. Furthermore, I was able to see clearly that Cho had clad
him in a dingy white cloth diaper that was so thick that I wondered how he was
managing to keep up with Cho despite her physical limitations.
In
a moment of excitement, distress and fright, the boy lifted his head and peeked
around Cho’s crippled leg and for the first time allowed me to see his face. My
heart skipped several beats as recognition dawned in both our eyes. I blurted
out without thinking of what I was saying, “LOWELL!”
Lowell’s
eyes exploded with exhilaration and in that brief moment in time, I read in his
eyes that he could not believe I was still alive and actually standing there
before him.
Sadly,
that was the full extent of our reunion. In an infuriated wrath, Mr. Wriggle
had hoisted me completely off the floor and pitched me through an open door
where I smashed into a big, round wooden pole. I was lying flat on my stomach
attempting to regain my faculties, not to mention the wind, which had been
knocked out of me, when I heard him shout, “Get that little beast a bed and
don’t be all night about it! The Misses needs your help with the others!”
With
my head still spinning from the impact with both the pole and the floor, I
suddenly felt myself lifted from the floor once again. However, this time I was
hoisted up by the back of my clothes and, hanging nearly lifeless was carried
down a spiraling staircase; further down then I had been thus far, all the
while having to listen to Mr. Wriggle’s invoking every cursed word he could
think off.
Though
it was hard to breath while bent nearly in half, I was still able to puff a few
ragged breaths while weeping from the pain. When we finally reached the bottom
of the stairs Mr. Wriggle stood me upright and gave me a firm slap across the
face, just for good measure I am sure. Through tear blurred eyes I realized I
was looking down a long corridor that seemed to go on forever. As we made our
way down the hallway, of course with Mr. Wriggle clutching the back of my hair
with his claw like hand, I could once again smell the horrible odder that had
been emanating from the boy back in the dinning hall, the same boy that I now
knew had been Lowell under all that unspeakable filth.
A
single hanging light bulb several feet away from the bottom of the steps was
all the light that appeared to be down in the dreadful place. It was now
shining behind us as a marker for where we had come from, it now caused huge
shadows to go before us, eclipsing whatever was only a few steps further on.
When
we had come to the end of the hall, which turned out to be a dead-end, we stood
looking at a wooden wall. Despite the fact that hardly any light at all was
making its way this far down the corridor I could still see that the wall
appeared at one time, to have had shackles fastened to it. There was a
distinctly human shaped stain and ware pattern in the wood, which lead me to
believe that they had been used quite often in the past and though I could see
no shackles now, I was praying that this was not going to be my fate.
It was
only then that Mr. Wriggle let go of my hair, but not without giving me a
violent shake and a warning, “It will be much worse for you if you were to
attempt to go anywhere boy!"
“Go
anywhere?” I thought, I was now about as able to "go anywhere" as a tree
stump!
Rubbing
the back of my head, I watched Mr. Wriggle remove the padlock from one of three
metal grates in the floor, then with a groan he reached up and took a hold of a
rope with a frayed knot at the end. As he pulled down on the rope the hinges on
the grate groaned as though they had not been used in over a decade. Once open,
curiosity motivated me to lean over slightly to see nothing but a gaping black
pit, which oddly enough reminded me of the tomb in Lowell’s Egyptian story.
Even as scared as I was feeling and knowing that Mr. Wriggle intended to send
or even drop me down into that pit, I still found comfort in my memories of
Lowell and his young Indiana Jones style of pants wetting adventure story.
Breathing
heavily from his effort to open the grate, he reached up high over his head and
thankfully pulled on a chain that lead up to a single, dim light bulb that hung
over the now open pit.
As
the light came on, from the closed grate several feet to my right I could hear
a dry, raspy moan followed by a faint plea for, “Waaaterrrr!”
The
cry did not sound like it came from a child but maybe a man. However, acting as
if he had not heard anything, Mr. Wriggle reached out to take hold of my neck
again. Unfortunately, I flinched which earned me another slap to my face. He
rapped his whole arm around the back of my neck and head, pulled me in so close
to his face that I thought he was going to kiss me but instead he snarled,
“Strip off them clothes!” and giving my head a firm squeeze he added, “And be quick
about it!"
I
looked up at him as if he had gone mad, which he obviously had because, when I
did not budge he ripped the shirt off me. Breathing hard and foaming at the
mouth he shoved me to the floor and yanked the pants right off of me without
even removing the shoes. As loose as they were on my feet, I was surprised that
they had stayed on.
Reached
down and lifting me to my feet by my ears he growled, “What is that?”
He was
running a single hand over my plastic armor trying to determine for himself
what it might be. Sobbing and rattled with fear I managed to say only two
words, “P-P-Please sir!” while wrapping my arms around my chest in hopes of
stopping him from taking it away from me too.
I’m
not sure why he didn’t remove my armor as well before sending me trembling and
naked down into the pit. Maybe it was my plea that thwarted any intentions he
might have had about doing anything else to me.
I
was clutching the rungs of a perfectly vertical wooden ladder that were as
smooth as only wood can be from years of hands and feet rubbing against it, all
the while trying to keep my clumsy shoes from slipping off as I descended into
the fowl smelling darkness.
Mr.
Wriggle was kind enough to leave the light on over the opening long enough for
me to reach the bottom and discover that I was now in a cold, damp space, where
the air was filled with the over powering fragrance of human waste and only
enough room to squat down, though just barely. Given how far down the spiral
stairs we had come, I was guessing that this was probably the very belly of the
boat and from the smell, it was likely to be the place where all the toilets,
sinks and who knows what else flowed into.
When
I had reached the bottom, the light went out and Mr. Wriggle bellowed down the
ladder, "A few days down there and you’ll be more then willing to fall in
line! If you want to stay at the Bancheli Home for Boys, you best learn and
learn well!"
The
next sounds I heard were the hinges groaning as the metal grate was slammed
shut; followed by the padlock being replace and finally Mr. Wriggle’s boots
drumming out a hasty retreat on the wooden floor above me. All sound soon
disappeared into the echoes above leaving behind a dreadful silence that was
occasionally interrupted by the sound of water flowing and splashing near by.
To all intents and purposes, I was now imprisoned in the lowest reaches of the
loving, caring Bancheli Home for Boys and was completely without hope!
With
a whimper, I turned, put my back to the wooden ladder and lowered myself to the
floor. I could feel each rung scraping against my plastic armor as I squatted
in place.
With
a single mournful sigh I whispered to the darkness, “Why did I say it was
mine?” and then I began to weep, which quickly became a full out howling.
I
have no idea how long I sat squatted against the base of the ladder and hugging
my knees to my chest, in an attempt to keep warm. The smell had long since
become mute for me as long as I continued breathing through my nose. If I
stopped and held my breath, even for a second the smell would come back to
molest my sense of smell. Sobbing and feeling as desperate as I have ever felt,
I sniffled and rubbed my dripping nose on my arm just before I heard . . .
“Sssst!”
I
froze instantly and listened but the sound was followed by more silence and I
was just about to dismiss it as a figment of m over active imagination when it
came again, stronger this time . . .
“Sssst!”
My
mind quickly conjured up the most horrible image of a snake that it could
manage and my entire body tensed up expecting at any moment to become dinner
for the scaly monster.
“Sssst!
Sssst!”
There
it was again and the fear was more then I could cope with as I felt my bladder
release what little fluid there was within it.
“Sssst!
Sssst!”
My
heart was pounding so hard I could feel it moving my plastic armor.
My
head began to swim as if I was going to faint. I shook my head hard, took in a
deep breath and held it so that I could listen for any sound of movement from
the snake, or whatever it was rapped in the dark with me. I concentrated, and
listened but I did not hear any more hissing but I did think I could hear
something else . . .
From
directly above my head I heard faintly, "Think he's a goner?" which
was followed by, "Ah, shush-up!”
“Na,
I t’ink he’s dead f’r sure!"
“I
done said ta shush-up!”
"Well,
‘e ain't say’n not’n."
"Might
be e’s sleep’n."
"I
recon e’s dead!"
"I
say he ain't!”
Then
all went quiet again for several panicked heartbeats until finally, “Sssst!
Sssst! Ron . . . Hey Ron! Are ya alive down dere?” There was a short
pause before the voice added, “Ron, It's me Micky."
Though
cold, frightened and hurting for the two days of slave labor, having been
knocked around by Mr. Wriggle and imprisoned at the bottom of a cold black crap
pit, suffise it to say that I was still curiously able to feel a flash of anger
at the mention of his name! The same boy who had thus far given no sign that he
felt anything but hatred for me. Micky, seemed to be the one who had been
influencing all the others to feel and treat me as if I were dog crap to be
scraped from their shoes. Micky, the boy who had tossed the quarter so far over
on the table that I had no choice but to confess to its ownership.
And
then the voice inside my head began to speak again, “Why not just let him and
the other whisperers up there think you’re dead? You know, it would serve them
right to fear that you died down here.”
I
had to to admit it, I was buying into the logic of the voice inside my head,
and after all, the tone of their whispers did sound a little scared.
“Yeah,
serves them right!” I thought, agreeing with the voice. “And what if I did say
something to let them know I am still alive? Maybe they are just here to tease
me about getting put in this horrible place?” and with that last thought, I
determined that I would not give them the chance!
But
oh how hard it was to hold my tongue when I so desperately wanted to talk to
someone; anyone! I had to clench my teeth together and dug my face into my
knees in order to keep silent.
"See,
Micky? No’a peep; dead, dat's f’r sure."
"He
ain't!" There was a note of desperation in the whispered voice from Micky,
"I'm tellin' ya dat ‘e ain't dead!”
“Sssst!
Sssst! Ron, say somethin'! Please!" and did I detect a hint of
genuine remorse in Micky’s voice just then?
"Aw,
it's no good, Micky! M’on, we best git back ta bed 'fore we git caught down
chere."
Micky’s
voices seemed to quiver slightly as he answered, "Yeah, I guess y’r right,
Peter. Maybe ‘e ain’t even in dere. Let's git goin'."
So
they were leaving; my only connection to anything human would be gone in a
matter of seconds, leaving me to die here alone in the terrible black pit under
the floorboards.
And
then the voice within my head quickly changed tactics on me as it said, “Better
them, then no one at all right?”
“Oh
make up your mind!” I mentally groaned at the voice and had the voice had its
own body I probably would have reached out and choked the life from it.
I
took a breath and nearly choked from the stench, "I ... I ... I'm not
dead!" I could only hope that the small quavering noise that came out of
my mouth was loud enough to still be heard by the boys over head.
My
announcement was first greeted with silence; then I heard an excited whisper.
"There, told ya so!” Micky said and I heard the sounds of bare feet
scuffing around the metal grate.
“Ron
is that you?” Micky asked.
“Y-y-yes,”
I stammered.
“Hey,
if y’r fingers ain't too frozed, come up da ladder so y’r closer; less chance a
som’un hearin' us. It's me Micky, with Peter and a couple others."
My
legs by now were so cold and cramped that it was a great effort just to stand
up let alone attempt to climb. Nevertheless, I somehow managed and dispite the
pain in my cold tight muscles I began to crawl back up the ladder. I had to
accomplish this in total darkness, although when I neared the top of the ladder
I saw that there was the faint glow of a small flashlight, so faint, however,
as to be almost non-existent.
“Sorry
we gotta keep da light covered." Micky said as I drew close enough that we
could now see each other. "Cho ain't never yet come 'round af’er she
checks we're in bed, but nothin's certain ‘round dis place.” He paused long
enough to take a breath, “An’ways, I ... I only wanted ya ta know I never meant
f’r da quarter to land where’n it did, clos’ta you I mean."
“That's
the truth!” Peter broke in, "He never did!"
“An’
I would’a fessed up but’cha beat me to it!" Micky exhaled loudly.
"He
would’a too!" said Peter.
"Once
ya said it and Ol’ Toad Face had it fixed in his froggy brain that it were y’rs
. . ." Micky was interrupted by Peter, “Yeah ‘e a real toad face!”
Not
paying him any attention Micky went on, "I could o' yelped my danged ol’
head off like a cry’n hound-dog and it wouldn’t done no good, no how.”
And
Peter added, “Nope, wouldn’t done no good t’all.”
There
was another short pause before Micky added, “Should be me down dere! Why'd ya
go and say it were y’rs?" Micky’s voice failed him at the end and I could
see he was biting on his bottom lip to keep from loosing all control of his
emotions.
I
hesitated; this whole dialogue was so astonishing and staggering that it was
hard for me to get my thoughts together and remember why I had actually said it
was mine.
I
took a breath before speaking, “Don’t much matter; I'm going to die here
anyway.” I paused expecting one of them to say something and when they didn’t I
added, “It’s okay, I know that I am." And that explanation was exactly the
truth as far as I was able to see.
For
the longest time no one made a peep until finally in an almost explosive cry
Micky said, "No!” he stood up and stomped his bare foot and at the moment
it did not registered that I’d seen he was wearing a diaper under his night
shirt, “No! No! No! You ain't gunna die!” he dropped back down so that he was right
over top the grate, “Y’ear me, Ron? You ain't gunna die! We wont let ya."
"Wh-wh-why?"
I asked in a disbelieving tone. After all, I was still finding it difficult to
accept that the issue of me wearing diapers at night had not been brought up.
“’Cause
we done said so!” Micky grunted, “An' you might well know I ain't proud o' how
mean I been. None o' us is!"
“Da’s
right!” Peter added after Micky prodded him with his elbow and the other boys
added their agreement as well.
“You
just make certain you stays ‘live t'night, Ron!" Micky said fiercely.
“Do
me a favor?” I asked not sure if I could rely on them or not.
“An’thin’!”
Micky said.
“Yeah
an’thin’g!” Per added.
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