Slip the piece into the side-pocket on the thigh like a gunslinger would his reserve unit, weight approximating near enough. (Stomach and, worse, testicular cancer were a worry, but that was the larger pad that might give concern. Care trying to hold it offa the trunk lately in bed.) The Panama ten-gallon hat. Adjust the fit. Swing out through the door, Partner, you’re as ready as you’re ever gonna be for the sidewalk. Crossing from the shade of the first tree to the second ten metres off, over the exposed paving where the ladies from the towers continue feeding the pigeons despite renewed prohibitions. Hold fast to the wall of the utility building for the eave. Along the walkway following the little Indo maid who keeps left of the shadow-line, smooth hairless calves a-pumping. Soon overtaken. Hearing steps, lass only turns slightly. One tall, handsome figure cut for her right enough, she can’t tell the age on a mere glimpse. Strong chin; bulewhite. Little brown kampung girl like a Mex. denoting enviable life even in that lowest of stations. Movement on the right, the Void, shadow behind the pillars…. False alarm, coast clear. That was only Mr Li wheeling a water barrel for his wondrous garden by the house. Slap bang on the Equator what does the man have there, the ole green thumb? Only olives, figs, grapes and tomato would you believe. $20k spent on the magnif. enclosure, which draws the eyes of all passer-by and sometimes the authorities concerned at poking branches. Valerie at Dead Mule had sent a Reject o’night, modestly, apologetically, offering sympathy for the process. In her case Val invited a second submission immediately following any bad news conveyed. Decent well-brought up Texan or Arizonan gal from good ranching stock. With any submission Val reminded, the Statement of Southern legitimacy was needed. Dead Mule was rooted in its local community; the Confederacy it seems, loosely defined. Well, Downunder by the Tasman, how far dat particular South does for affinity? For her little online journal editor Valerie uses a citation of her own creation: “No good Southern fiction is complete without a dead mule." Unfortunately not in the case of “Gunslinger,” the recent failure; though that Madura man who featured probably did ride the family Moo at least in the cow races that have put his island on the map. Might have won some prizes too chap of that calibre. Second time round we let Valerie have “Dry-bone Kampung (Gulch).” Leave it to the lady to make what she will of Beefy Mohammed the ex-con apprehensive over the drought in these parts few years back. Currently the drought and water restrictions were up on the Peninsular, but given that 60% of Sing supplies were sourced from there, more than enough cause for concern. No expired mule in this flash either Val; plenty of the South for all that I warrant you. Holler how you find it when you’re done, Hone.
Geylang Serai, Singapore
(Jakarta bound in the mornin’)
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