Mesa Flats Resort Circles the Wagons

By George T. Lindsey

Mesa Flats Resort is an assortment of retirees who have chosen to live in this 55+, walled-in, friendly, upscale, active, trailer court community in the Sonoran Desert near Tucson. The five Homeowners Association Board of Directors and the resort residents caper though another year of feisty events, involving a tombstone shoot-out, an invasion by a drug gang, walking underground through a Titan missile base, a trip to Hawaii, road junkets through the West, including the Grand Canyon and Bisbee, romances, a vows celebration, holiday blues, freezes, follies, fights, barking dogs, and circling the wagons. Larry Armstrong, an lowan by birth and who served as president, finally, in despair, leaves and hides in Sedona. They find him. They always do . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466954052

George T. Lindsey

An award-winning poet, short story writer, and documentary filmmaker, the author has written, produced, or directed over two hundred film or video productions, winning over fifteen regional and national awards. He graduated as an English major from the Ohio State University and became a writer, producer, and director while at WOSU TV, moved to WITF TV, Hershey, then to WRC NBC TV, Washington, D.C. He is a freelance writer and lives with his wife, Ada, in California and Arizona.

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Copyright 2012 George T. Lindsey.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-5406-9 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-5404-5 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-5405-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012915213

Trafford rev. 08/25/2012

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www.trafford.com

North America & international

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TO ADA

Who brings sunshine to each day!

I love you!

Contents

The Punch Felt ’Round the Wagons

Pretty Guns

The Moment When . . .

A Halloween Camelot

Burt Buys a Laptop and Gloria Buys Pencils

The New, Wild, Wild West

Mad Dogs Don’t Belong

The Dragon Queen

Firebird

One Event Beyond

Quit Taking Pills

Is Retirement Possible?

Christmas Gem

A New Year’s Event

The Red Wine Sea Trip to Greece

When Cacti Die at Winter’s Door

The Great Freeze of 2011

Fright or Flight: The Snowbird Dilemma

When Sickness Comes

The Penis That Made the Difference

Maniacal Bikers

Lost Exodus

Cactus Salute

Tombstone Shoot-Out

On the Road with Gretta

Today My Buffalo Cried and I Was Blamed for Making a Mess

Block Two’s Party

Romancing Donna

A Casual Evening of Fights, Anger and Possible Break-Ups

Larry Goes Missing

Vows Renewal

Wednesday’s Shoot-Out

The Mesa Flats Resort Follies

The Weimaraner

Journey to the Long, Big Hole

A Long Way from Clay Town

Mesa Flats Resort Circles the Wagons

Noodling

Last Patrol

About the Author

The Punch Felt

’Round the Wagons

T he beginning was in September when they returned from the cooler reaches of the North and Midwest or the shores and mountains of California, and in this beginning of autumn 2010, they were greeted by Larry Armstrong, HOA president of Mesa Flats Resort, and his eclectic, merry-making HOA board members. They watched over the flock of eighteen hundred people, parked near each other in twelve hundred trailers, or units, as they were insistently called by Larry. Some units were on blocks, others were mobile homes, RVs, and some were homes, not really mobile. Many were upscale with fancy add-on Arizona rooms—the eighteen hundred citizens were growing older, in an active, adult community, living a second childhood or fantasizing, spending their previously earned savings on human satisfying trinkets of trailer court, resort-like existence, and were immersed in the comradeship often expressed by most of the residents, except, of course, Jack Stoker.

Larry might have been supreme commander, but he had an odd assortment for board members, which, like him, kept getting re-elected. There was Marge Dunlap, from Ohio, a Republican liberal, likely to have an impact on any organized or unorganized plans; Sissy Sprattle, an eighty-three year old retired Treasury Department executive secretary from Washington, D.C.; Carl Ziggler, a retired police officer from Omaha, Nebraska, now head of Mesa Flats Resort security, a nice guy with too many suspicions; and Dennis Packard, a free lance maintenance man, who knew everyone’s dark secrets, learned on the gossamer wings of resort gossip.

Any one of them could stop a Homeowners Association board meeting agenda presided over by Larry, and they often did, which did not mean they resented or hated their leader. They loved him, but knew his weaknesses, along with his foibles, and tried to prevent him from committing serious blunders. They almost tolerated his long, as Dennis called them, soliloquies, his obsession with cowboy icons and lore, and his ever present smile.

For five years Larry had pulled Mesa Flats Resort together and few wanted change except Jack Stoker, a trouble-maker and self-sworn enemy to Larry and the board. Jack had a small following. He had owned an electronic business in Tucson and wanted, with the most desperate attitude, to be president and in charge of Mesa Flats Resort. What he would do with it frightened every unit owner except his small following and Teak Dordin, a clerk now working at Jack’s former electronic store.

There were others, a hodgepodge of castaways: recluses like Digger Duncan, an ex-prospector, mostly from Colorado, and keeper of the Lapidary Shop; John Bennoween, another D.C. renegade moved to these far desert mountains of the West; Seymor Hathaway, a fussy ex-high school teacher of math from Los Angeles who had never married; Sally and Johnathan Johnson, Afro-Americans from Maryland. Johnathan maintained ties with the National Security Agency. There were others who shouldn’t be in a trailer court high in the Sonora Desert, but were, like Burt and Gloria Myers who had arrived at Mesa Flats Resort several years ago from Indiana and Purdue University.

In the winter, their Mesa Flats Resort was full, eighteen hundred of them camped in outdated to contemporary, even posh, units. All the residents were sitting in a gravel and cacti-filled community with paved roads, looking up at the Santa Catalina mountains, wanting to enjoy their remaining years with their remaining dreams and common sociability.

It was late September and they rolled in, having avoided the blistering months of June to August in the Sonora Desert sun. Some, like Larry and the board members, had remained in Mesa Flats Resort, enduring the hardship of dry heat and long days. They were the real desert dwellers. This new season they greeted each returning resident with the genuine friendliness felt by those who had selected Mesa Flats Resort as their place to retire. At the end of the week there was even a welcoming social event at the club house, planned by Marge, the consummate event planner for Mesa Flats Resort. They arrived at the club house in an assortment of electric vehicles, EVs, or more commonly known as golf carts. They walked to the ballroom, each enthusiastically made a choice from a variety of drinks which were being offered, free for this welcoming back event, then entered the long greeting line. The HOA board members were actually well-dressed even over-dressed for the occasion. Larry and Carl wore tuxedos, Marge and Sissy appeared in elegant but homemade gowns, and Dennis sported a silk shirt, cotton trousers and casual shoes. This was a special event for the usually very casual group.

Larry’s eyes brightened when he saw Johnathan and Sally Johnson in line. They approached him after Marge hugged and welcomed them. Johnathan wore a tux and Sally a stunning evening gown.

How’s retirement? Larry asked, hugging one then the other.

We sleep in, Sally announced gleefully. Johnathan doesn’t like to admit it, but doing nothing is better than being too busy. But he gets into funks.

We’ll pull him out of that soon enough, Marge answered with a smile. Johnathan! Why are you feeling down? You’re up here in the beautiful mountains north of Tucson. The world is open to you. Access to almost anything you always wanted to do, barring a criminal leaning.

It’s not the same as the real thing, Johnathan answered deep into himself. It’s like buying a Harley Davidson because I’ve always had a yearning to go wild, but I’m too old for that.

Personally, I hope you’ll refrain from that fart making machine, but whatever will be. Larry pressed his hand in friendship. The next people Larry caught a glimpse of in the periphery of his eye, shocked him. It was Jack Stoker and his more youthful henchman, Teak Dordin. Neither Jack nor Teak offered their hands.

Jack feigned a spit on Larry’s shined shoes. You look like a flower in heat, or is it a queen in waiting?

Larry’s smile turned sinister. Jack, you haven’t changed. How was your vacation in hell?

You listen to me, big shit! Jack barked. This is my year to burn your ass!

Larry nodded. Strange. I thought this was my year once again to keep you from breaking rules, regulations, and being obnoxious which costs the HOA money and grief.

They moved on, aided by Carl, who broke line and interrupted the potentially volatile scene.

Thanks, Carl, Larry responded, to the assistance of the security chief.

Sorry I don’t have an outhouse hole to drown those piss ants. Carl muttered as he returned to his place in line.

Gail Simmons walked in, wearing a stunning long straight gown. She kissed Larry, not on the cheek, but a long deep kiss to announce their evolving relationship.

Larry looked across at Gail. You look dazzling as always.

As always, it’s for you, she answered, and moved on out of his clasp.

The playful Mesa Flats Resort returning residents continued to enter the line, controlled, as usual, by Sissy Sprattle, who watched over everyone.

After all the welcoming-back introductions and happy salutations, the bar remained open, drinks were still free until they ran out. Then better quality wine was introduced at reasonable prices. The Mesa Flats Resort Homeowners Association could only afford so much. The board members wanted first class but settled as high as their association budget could afford.

Jack and Teak drank their drinks while standing in line at the bar for the next round. Most residents sipped one or two glasses then deserted the bar for more comfortable seating with their friends and neighbors. Larry and the board members had aborted the welcoming line.

The Fifties Swingers were decked out in pegged pants and tee shirts for males, saddle shoes, bobby socks, full skirts, sweaters and June Allison bangs for females. They belted the fifties and sixties songs. Everyone shared remembered things and danced with partners they had been with for awhile, some for fifty years, a half century, still standing, dancing and being with the one they loved. Gail and Larry were among them, but lacked the matrimonial longevity, having only met last year when Gail moved from Columbus, Ohio to Mesa Flats Resort.

When are we going to be married? Larry whispered in her ear as if she were a twenty-one year old college student and his steady.

When the time is right for both of us, Gail answered, as they continued to dance.

The time for both of us is when Roy Rogers kisses his girl rather than his horse, Trigger. Let’s light a fire under his ass.

Why the sudden rush, Romeo?

I love you.

More than Zooter?

Don’t get personal about my EV.

More than being president of the association?

You want the job?

More than giving up your independence and having to share each movement with another you have known for less than a year?

The song ended. They returned to their table with Larry in a persuasive mood. Larry heard it first. It was Jack Stoker arguing with the bartender. Casually, Larry gathered Carl and Dennis from their tables and swiftly but quietly headed toward the bar.

Jack was pounding on the bar with his fist. I want my free drink!

The volunteer bartender, Walter Gritiz, smiled seeing the approaching posse. You have had six drinks, Mr. Jack Stoker and are behaving like it. Well beyond your limit or ours.

You’re questioning an honest tax paying citizen who’s in good standing and has run for president of the board?

The bartender smiled at Larry and his entourage. Yes I am.

Having trouble, Jack? Larry asked, peering over the little man’s shoulder.

Jack turned and tossed the remaining red wine in his glass directly at Larry. Red spots appeared on the white tux shirt. Larry stepped forward and hit Stoker, landing a haymaker from deep on the uplift. Jack dropped with the intensity of a cement bag.

Larry pointed at the small heap. Get him and his friend out of here! Take him to his EV and let his friend drive him home.

Carl and Dennis picked Stoker up and carried him from the ballroom. Teak followed meekly.

Larry returned to his table and sat while mopping at the red wine spots. Gail reached for his hand. As soon as he revives, there will be charges filed against you, followed tomorrow by a lawsuit.

It was provoked.

You hit a drunk.

Drunk on our free wine. He shouldn’t have been drunk.

Tell that to a liberal judge, and most of them are, Gail answered.

People walked to Larry’s table and offered their condolences, then announced a well-done for doing Jack Stoker in. It seemed most of Mesa Flats Resort owners had run-ins with Jack Stoker, or watched him try to manipulate the system. Burt and Gloria Myers were especially cheerful.

Good hit, Larry! Burt burst out. That came from the floor. He’ll be out for a while, and let me say, we’re with you and any recrimination coming from his side will be opposed by everyone in this room.

The music resumed, but many Mesa Flats residents stood in line, waiting their turn to say a few words to Larry, in support of their leader.

Gail giggled. Larry, you might lose your unit over this, but it’s worth watching the friendship and respect shown by our people.

Larry glanced around the ballroom. I need to get up early to call my lawyer.

You have a ton of people in line, Gail replied, and when Larry looked up he realized it would take until midnight to greet them all. He rose and walked to the podium where the Fifties Swingers were just ending the song, Blue Moon.

Silence reigned. Larry looked into the eyes of unit owners. I apologize for what I have done tonight. I was angry with being intentionally doused with red wine. But as most of you know, Jack Stoker has caused much stress, economic hardship, and sometimes danger to our people. He has long deserved what he received tonight. There was a spontaneous outburst of applause. Knowing the MO of Jack Stoker, there will be a lawsuit filed. I apologize again for this evening’s interruption.

It’s not your fault, Larry! It’s Stoker! Ginger McKawen shouted using her ex-military nurse officer voice.

Everyone stood and applauded.

Get rid of him! Another voice shouted. He’s a menace!

Larry held his arms high. Thank you all! Please continue to enjoy this great evening, together, once again being in Mesa Flats Resort.

Larry left the podium with a standing ovation. No one, except Stoker’s small group, which had left the ballroom, wanted Larry to step down as the HOA president.

Larry drove Zooter, his electric vehicle, to his unit. Gail wanted to accompany him, but he was in no mood for companionship. He had to determine the direction he should take, if indeed, Stoker filed a lawsuit, as was his typical antagonistic behavior.

Notes from Beethoven’s ninth signaled a call on his phone. He turned it on and the voice of his lawyer, Mary Edwards, cheered him.

How did you hear?

Sissy called and told me what happened. Now you tell me. Mary was calm and assured. She listened quietly to the full story then spoke. Larry. Do not have anything to do with this Jack Stoker. Do not, under any circumstance, speak to him or discuss the situation with anyone but me. I’m thinking about filing against him for spitting on you, throwing wine, and defaming your character.

He feigned spitting, Larry answered honestly.

He made the gesture?

Yes.

And threw wine?

Yes.

I’ll bring charges tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep and don’t let this case keep you up. Jack Stoker is a trouble-maker and will pay. See you at my office tomorrow morning at nine.

How about eleven, Larry asked. I’ll need the time to catch up on the sleep I will miss tonight. Mary agreed. Larry took a sleeping pill and was deep in sleep within fifteen minutes.

A bell sounded in Larry’s ear at seven in the morning. Then it became a knock, then hammering. He sleepily pulled on his robe and encountered the intruder to his sleep. A sheriff deputy, badge in hand, stood formally at the entrance.

You are not welcome, Larry said, knowing a summons when it appeared.

Sign here. The deputy looked at his watch and noted it on the form after being returned by Larry.

You could work up a sense of humor. Larry took the summons, winning over his impulse to tear it up and make this insufferable early morning intruder eat it. Larry slammed the door, but the deputy was gone. Larry threw the thick document on the kitchen table and went back to bed.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thoughts of every indiscretion, every infringement, every violation Jack Stoker had caused Mesa Flats Resort HOA and the residents moved slow motion through his memory. He fell asleep from exhaustion, remembering how many times he saved Jack Stoker from himself and the owners of Mesa Flats Resort.

He awakened at nine, rose, ate breakfast, showered then rode his bicycle, fondly named Stallion, to the place they called the Graveyard, a parking lot for stored campers and other not often used vehicles. This is where he kept his little-used car. He drove the old battered Ford Falcon to the attorney’s office where he was welcomed like a king. Having stepped out of an ancient car, with a pending lawsuit ahead, he didn’t feel so regal.

He handed Mary the summons, which he had read while munching on cereal squares, banana and milk. It was boiler plate nonsense.

Mary studied it briefly and sat the thick volume aside. Unfortunately you did hit him. Was he threatening you?

He threw a glass of wine on my tuxedo shirt, called me a queen in front of many people, was obnoxious, and deserved what he received.

Do you have others who will testify to his obnoxious, aggressive, destructive behavior?

The people in the room.

About how many?

At least sixty, maybe more. We were having a welcome back party for the returning residents; we were in the ballroom. They cheered.

I take it only a few admire this Jack Stoker?

Very few.

We’ll start setting up depositions today. She handed him a legal pad. Please list the names of those who you think were watching and who will be articulate with precision.

Larry was off on another time consuming, stressful mission created by Jack Stoker.

At Marge Dunlap’s cement table in her Arizona room, another form of protective coating for Larry was brewing between six contemporary witches: Marge, Gail, Sissy, and three friends, owners and residents of Mesa Flats Resort. Jodi Packard was the wife of the maintenance man and board member, Dennis; Bonnie Ziggler was Carl, the security chief’s wife, and Jill DeClare belonged to herself. Now a stack of papers stood sentinel on the cement table. They all read from copies to approve the wording of the document they were creating.

Jodi was first to respond. Seems okay to me.

Let’s do it one more time, Jill DeClare requested. This is an important document and there isn’t a legal mind amongst us.

Marge read. "We, the undersigned, declare we heard and or saw Mr. Jack Stoker verbally and falsely insult, then throw wine from a half filled glass on Larry Armstrong’s tuxedo shirt during a welcome back party, held in the Mesa Flats Resort club house ballroom, for returning residents.

We, a concerned group, demand that said Stoker, because of this incident and his continued abusive and disruptive behavior, give up any claim to his said lawsuit, and if he does not, we will begin the necessary actions according to the CC&Rs and R&Rs to have him barred from all Mesa Flats Resort events and functions for a period of one year. If he appears inebriated and abusive, police will be called to handle the situation, Marge noted. There was a line for signature and address.

It’s fuzzy, Jodi offered.

We have run off over a hundred and sixty copies, Marge answered, patting the stack.

Jodi stood. Let’s do it!

You have your addresses? Sissy asked, checking her clipboard.

Most of them will be walking at this hour.

Put it in their screen doors; remember mail boxes are off limits to non-mailed materials. We’re not using stamps. How about the tubes under the mail boxes, anything they’ll open? Marge suggested.

Sissy passed out the copies. Marge picked up a copy and scrutinized it. We need these petitions signed by early tomorrow morning. Tell them to leave it on their Arizona room table or in the tube under their mail box.

And we can pick them up in the morning. Jill sang, Well, off to work I go.

They reluctantly fanned out to the circled wagons, knowing it would be a long morning. Their golf carts, which they fondly called their electric buggies or EVs, pushed off, with a whirring sound, toward their assigned destinations to deliver their self-created petition, hoping to collect many signatures.

Marge had obtained the addresses of all who had attended the welcoming-back function. It was another project for her, an important one. Larry was worth it.

The next morning, Larry was up for another meeting with Mary Edwards; when he returned to his unit at two in the afternoon, Gail sat reading at the cement table.

Larry sat. What are you reading?

We’ve been collecting signatures. Gail handed a thick pile of papers to Larry. Mr. Stoker will be swamped by tomorrow evening. He’ll wish he had never met you.

Larry finished reading one of the signed documents. Pretty impressive, but you should have submitted it to Mary for clearance.

Mary who?

Mary Edwards, my lawyer.

Is that where you’ve been? All this time?

There was a lot to do, Larry replied sheepishly.

Gail rose, threw the remaining papers on the table and stormed to her EV. She was gone in a whir. Tired and weary from the day, Larry rose, walked to the road and watched her cart glide down Oro Road toward the silence of her unit.

Not wanting a confrontation, he gathered the papers and walked into his unit, poured himself a cup of coffee, and retired to the bedroom for a nap. He had a five o’clock dinner meeting with Mary at a restaurant near her office. He had not mentioned to Gail about where or with whom he had had lunch, nor that he also was having a dinner meeting this evening.

Larry took the petitions Gail had left him to the meeting. Mary carefully read the declaration. She wore an expensive looking suit, cut just above the knees, her attractive legs slimming into a pair of high heels. Divorced, childless, in her mid-forties, Mary Edwards was her own woman. She looked up at Larry. This might complicate the case.

Larry shrugged. Some of the Mesa Flats Resort residents created this. They did it on their own. I didn’t know about it until I returned home after lunch.

They must care about you deeply.

Larry smiled. They are a caring people. Mesa Flats Resort is an idyllic desert resort except for our one Stoker snake and his band of miscreants.

Mary returned the paper to the stack. This might scare the viper into backing down. I don’t think he’ll want to pursue a lawsuit with most of his neighbors wanting to hatchet him. His lawyer will probably talk to him if he’s crazy enough to carry on. Let’s order. She placed her hand on top of his then quickly removed it.

Mary accepted the stack of signed petitions and slipped them into her briefcase.

What do you think counselor?

From what you have told me about Jack Stoker, we can bury him in the offensive bin, but no case is easy. Things happen. I’ll contact the lawyer listed in the summons and keep you informed.

They shook hands and Larry returned to Mesa Flats in the battered Falcon.

Gail was waiting in his Arizona Room, which was nothing more than a roofed area along the side of his unit with three foot high walls surrounding it.

She closed the book and laid it on the cement table Larry frequently used as a dining room table. You look beat and defeated. I’m sorry about stomping off this afternoon, she said, rising and giving him a kiss.

Tired, not defeated. Unfortunately I know what a pain in the ass a lawsuit is, and the lawyers making big bucks, keep them juggling between the hands of justice, who only listens to the voice and vocabulary of lawyers because it wears a handkerchief tied around its eyes.

How was the session with the lawyer? Gail asked suspiciously.

Bland and without distinction. The rat has me between a rock and a precipice.

His cell phone played the exploding notes of Beethoven’s ninth. Larry listened, and then answered the phone. I’m with Gail. I was about to serve her a glass of wine. Tell Digger I have Moose Drool in the refrig. He clicked off. That was Marge. Digger wants to talk to me."

Digger Dugan the Devious probably has a plan. He usually does, Gail said, watching Larry through narrow eyes. What’s this about a glass of wine?

Coming right up, Larry said, starting for his unit. He stopped at the front steps. And no! I’m not having an affair with Mary. It’s a stupid lawsuit.

Larry rushed into his unit and Gail heard the rattling of glasses.

Marge and Digger arrived before Larry returned. They sat and talked to Gail.

Larry carried a tray with a bottle of wine, a beer, and glasses. He unloaded then rushed back inside and emerged with finger food for everyone. He sat next to Gail.

Marge turned to Digger. Tell them.

Let me drink my beer first.

Tell them now.

Think I can sour this lawsuit shit.

How, Digger?

Challenge him to another game of darts. A thousand bucks against his dropping the suit.

Larry sat after pouring wine. Haven’t been keeping up on my game recently, and where am I going to get a thou?

Already have the money. Generous contributions by our community. Didn’t take much arm twisting either. Our money’s on you.

It’s worth a fling, Marge volunteered.

I’d feel guilty if I lost.

You’re not a saint. Take it and beat the cocky son-of-a-bitch! Digger stood, turned and walked into the darkness of the road. Digger did not suffer long meetings.

Larry stood. Digger! Come back. I’ll do it.

The match was scheduled for the next evening at the Gray Coconut Lounge. At four forty-five, Jack Stoker and Teak Dordin, a clerk at Jack’s former electronic store, swaggered into the lounge where a crowd had gathered. They had been there earlier to hang the balloons and set out the darts. Teak drifted into the crowd. The last dart contest between them was played at the Pretender’s Ball in 2009 with Larry’s presidency at stake and Jack’s claims on a piece of Mesa Flats Resort property that Gail wanted to purchase. Larry had won that contest for Gail. Now, another contest was about to be wagered.

Larry and Gail arrived at five. Cheers broke out as Larry walked to the dart throwing area. Jack was already throwing darts. One wall was lined with small inflated balloons, tied and hanging. Jack was throwing at the board mounted on the other wall.

The rules were no dart tossing until the game.

I didn’t break a balloon. Just using the board, so don’t sweat it, Jack answered antagonistically. I’ve been practicing, Mr. Armstrong. You’re in for a beating!

Larry accepted a dart Jack handed him. The rules will be the same as the game last year. First to miss a balloon and the opponent breaks the next, wins. Understood?

I wasn’t just hatched this morning.

If you win, you collect one thousand dollars. If I win, you drop the lawsuit and never file again. Agreed?

I’ll take the grand but ain’t gonna make promises holding in the future.

Then the match is off. You reneged.

Okay, no more suits unless they’re damn well justified.

No more lawsuits! This isn’t a game, Jack. It’s for real. Are you man enough to stand behind an agreement?

I didn’t say anything about the future.

Digger Duncan stepped forward, acting as referee, and looked down on the little man. There were four of us present. You agreed to the terms.

The lounge seemed to cloud in the silence.

Jack nodded.

Does that mean you agree with the terms? Larry asked.

Jack nodded.

Yes or no?

Okay.

I take that as a positive confirmation. You can go first, Jack.

They had only one chance per balloon so each held a dart. Jack threw and broke a balloon. Larry followed and nicked one, enough that it lost air.

That’s a miss! Jack shouted.

A hit, Digger said, watching the balloon deflate.

Across the room, Carl whispered to Dennis. Larry’s off.

Jack threw again and broke another