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Mrs. Fitzsimmons had no personal experience with intestinal mayhem but she loved a good party.
“Being mixed-up and lost is positively better than being dead at the bottom of a fish pond, no?”
The pudgy raccoon sat splay-legged on its haunches, finishing a Triscuit. It growled at Angie while nimbly plucking another cracker from the box.
His punctuality was also impressive, and somewhat uncharacteristic of redneck whack jobs.
“Why? It was probably just kids. Your neighborhood has a very active chapter of the Future Felons of America.”
As he did every Saturday morning, Uric Burns went to the farmers’ market and shoplifted organically grown produce.
It was the third dead body he’d found while fishing, but such was the reality of a childhood spent outdoors in Florida.
“I bought her a burner phone.” “True love,” Ryskamp said. “Shakespeare was born too soon.”
“The man’s basically mainlining corn syrup and caffeine.”
“Lord, no! What’s left of my soul would shrivel without Pandora. They’ve got a whole station for Buffalo Springfield!”
