Cecconi's Whirlwind

By Clive Levinson

When a drug deal goes wrong, Felix Cecconi is accused of two brutal murders. At the same time his only son is killed. Desperate to find answers and struggling with his own demons, he is blackmailed into assassinating a leading environmentalist. Pursued by a ruthless cop, he gets caught up in a logging blockade – a virtual war zone. There, he finds himself drawn to its passionate and defiant leader, his target, Sarah Medwood. When he meets Sarah, he knows her death is the only thing that can set him free, but he falls in love with her with fatal consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665710367

Clive Levinson

CLIVE LEVINSON grew up in Namibia.  He has an economics degree from the University of Cape Town, and was nominated twice for an “Artes” award by South African Television for best director of a documentary and musical. He worked in real estate in Paris and then in Victoria, British Columbia, where he now lives. This is his first novel.

Book preview

1

F elix Cecconi, a rough-hewn man with thick eyebrows, a broken nose and jet-black hair, stood on the driver’s seat, both hands stretched out like a crucifix as they raced across Lion’s Gate Bridge in the Cadillac convertible.

Fan, a sturdy Chinese dude supported him from behind, while Skeet, seated next to him, had his foot on the gas, his hands on the wheel, barely holding the car on track.

Cecconi sang La Donna è Mobile, from Rigoletto to the receding skyscrapers of downtown Vancouver, to the cruise ships far below, to the stream of cars surging from behind and to his henchmen. They were his family and part of his song and his voice was nothing short of excellent.

He fell back into his seat and grabbed the wheel as the snow-capped peaks of the North Shore Mountains hovered over them. The woman is fickle, he muttered.

In a West Vancouver luxury seaside condo, expensive clothing spilled over chairs, onto the floor and into two suitcases.

Susan, an attractive mid-thirties brunette, naked except for her panties, pulled out two designer dresses from the closet and carefully folded them into her suitcase, leaving a Roberto Cavalli floral dress still hanging. She glanced back at the bed where a mass of blond hair lay half hidden under the covers.

We have a long journey ahead, she urged.

The Cadillac swept across the spectacular three-lane suspension bridge modelled on San Francisco’s Golden Gate. Hundreds of feet below the sea looked like a million ice cubes glinting in the sun.

I took Susan off the streets and made her rich, Cecconi boomed. No loyalty, no right from wrong. It irks me. It pisses me off.

Skeet checked the shells in his Colt .38 Special. Thirty-something, lean and muscular, he wore a colourful, carefully pressed shirt with an image of poppies reminiscent of Andy Warhol’s Flowers. Around his neck he wore an equally flamboyant scarf tied in a knot.

In the back seat, Fan contemplated the cupcake in his hand, his shaved head, with tattoos printed diagonally across his baldpate, looked like excerpts from a comic book with peculiar figures and foreign language bubbles. Raspberry zinger star-studded with twenty-eight chocolate chips—you’re looking at the pinnacle of our civilization, he held up the cupcake for the others to admire, although none of them did, and he gulped it down.

Susan seated herself on the bed and pulled back the covers to reveal the pretty, delicate face of a young woman. She bent over and kissed her cheek. C’mon, Betty. It’s time to leave.

Betty sleepily entwined her arms around Susan’s head and gently pulled her down. I’m not letting you go, she whispered, kissing her lips and cheeks and along her neck.

Not now, please. Oh, Betty, don’t do this. You have no idea, Susan murmured, melting into Betty’s embrace. Oh, my darling, she kissed Betty tenderly.

A whole new life awaited them, something they had been planning for years. We must go ...

I love you, Betty wept as their bodies came together.

A dream puff, Fan contemplated a second cupcake in his hand. Banana pineapple with cream cheese frosting, he stuffed his mouth as the convertible raced through the affluent suburbs of West Vancouver with its expensive boutiques and exotic homes staring across English Bay at the city skyline. Finally, they turned into a cul-de-sac with million-dollar homes unfurling themselves to their boundaries. They coasted through a manicured garden to the entrance of an exclusive waterfront condominium.

Cecconi slammed the car into a visitors’ parking bay. He and Skeet jumped out and headed for the entrance, while Fan held up his last cupcake. Chocolate, cherry, cola—where’s the interest? He took a bite, then grabbing his Smith & Wesson, stumbled after them.

They marched into the marble foyer with its comfortable couches and potted orchids, up to the fourteenth floor and down a corridor of plush carpet to a solid teak door. Cecconi took out a key, turned the lock and stepped inside.

Voices came from the bedroom as they stalked across the living room with its spectacular views of the bay. All the rooms had been stripped bare of personal belongings. The snitch was right, Cecconi muttered.

Bye, bye, Vancouver, Betty sang from the bedroom.

Susan, dressed in her floral print Cavalli, packed the last of her clothes and zippered up her suitcase. Let’s go, she tipped the case onto its wheels and turned towards the door.

The three men stood facing her, striking an operatic frieze. Her face went pale with fear.

Betty, oblivious to the danger, stared out to sea in her multicoloured, wave-stitch Missoni, a sundress folded over her arm. I’m going to start a whole new life, learn Spanish and go native, she said wistfully. It’s been my dream. Just you and me—

What about me? Cecconi snarled.

Betty swung around as if she had been struck in the face.

Susan dove for her handbag, but Skeet pounced on her with the force of 180 pounds and threw her savagely onto the bed. He kicked open the suitcase, whipped out a silk girdle and tied her to the bedpost.

Betty stood transfixed, an exotic bird caught in a trap.

Going places, ladies? Cecconi asked sweetly as he turned the crocodile-skin handbag upside down. A packet of Kleenex, lipstick, hairbrush, passports and two airline tickets tumbled onto the bed, followed by an antiquated revolver.

Nice way to greet friends, Cecconi picked up the gun as if it were an ugly insect. Where’s the mutual respect, Susan? I trusted you. You needed cash and I gave you a business. I feel so fucking used.

The women were petrified as dreams of a new life shattered before their eyes. We’ve done nothing wrong, Susan gulped. We’re going on holiday … to Mexico.

What about the nine hundred G’s you owe me? When were you thinking of repaying me? You forget, Susan, I keep tabs on my dealers. To prevent something like this from happening.

We’ll pay it back. This is a holiday, for God’s sake, Susan gave Betty a look that was not missed by Cecconi.

Is that so? If that’s how you want to play it, he looked at his men, search the fucking place.

In a hotel room diagonally opposite, on the sixteenth floor, a ruddy-faced woman with reddish-brown hair tied in a French braid, wearing jeans, a matching blouse and blazer, seated herself by the window with a cup of steaming coffee. Detective Constable Bronwyn Chatworth tore open two packets of sugar, poured in the contents, gave a quick stir and took a sip.

She wore no earrings but studs, was light on makeup so as not to attract the dogs she worked with, and had low heels on shoes that tied up, because she needed to run at speed. Her Glock pistol was tucked into her shoulder holster hidden by her blazer.

She took another sip and in a reflex motion pulled the telescope toward her and peered through the eyepiece. What she saw sent shockwaves through her body. Haggerty! It’s Cecconi.

Haggerty had waited for this moment for more than two weeks. A tall, good-looking man, tightly built with a face that showed little emotion, ran from the shower with a towel around his waist. He grabbed the binoculars and stared through the lenses, droplets of water still running down his chest.

Susan was tied to a bedpost and Betty, manacled by Fan, was locked to the second bedpost.

Cecconi, you beautiful bastard, Detective Sergeant Haggerty muttered, a thin smile breaking his face. Now fuck up, brother. Fuck up real good.

Bronwyn glanced at him sharply. What do you mean, fuck up?

Cecconi nodded at the two suitcases, which Skeet and Fan attacked like animals, flinging clothes in every direction.

Susan and Betty watched helplessly as Fan unzipped a Hermés carry-on bag and turned it upside down. One hundred dollar bundles, each made up of thirty, hundred dollar bills fell in a pile.

That’s our money we saved, Susan exclaimed in desperation.

Your money? Cecconi snorted.

Fan counted the notes like a bank teller. One … two … three hundred grand.

Look at him. He’s a freaking machine. Not bad, except we’re six hundred K short. Find it, boys.

Fuck you! Susan cried.

Take what doesn’t belong to you and end up like this, Cecconi commented drily.

Go away. Leave us alone, Susan stammered as Fan untied Betty and held her in a vice, while Skeet ran his fingers down the front of her dress, which he tore open.

You swine. Don’t you dare touch her! Susan screamed.

No breast implants here, boss. It’s the real thing, he noted.

How dare you? Betty shrieked, tearing herself from his touch.

Skeet was unperturbed as he went under her skirt and along her thighs.

Take your hands off me, you filthy pig.

I’m thorough, doll. Got a good training as a cop.

Another move and I’ll snap your arm, Fan warned.

You fucking bastards, leave her alone, Susan raged. Get out of here.

She’s clean, Skeet calmly turned on Susan, your turn, baby.

But Susan was stronger and as soon as she was untied, threw herself off the bed.

Fan gave a low, circular kick to her jaw, flinging her against the wall, where she fell in a heap.

Jeez, you’re accurate, Skeet looked at him in admiration.

All you got to do is bend your knees like so, Fan demonstrated the kick in slow motion, and whammo!

Meanwhile, Cecconi marched from room to room, ripping out drawers and opening cupboards, but all were empty. Goddammit! he roared. Where’s my money, woman?

Skeet scraped a sullen Susan off the floor and while Fan held her arms, tore open her blouse.

You bastards, fuck off. Fuck off, she struggled as Skeet searched her body in the same meticulous manner.

Stop that! Get away from her, Betty bawled.

It’s that time of month—for both of them, Skeet sneered, as they tied her to the second bedpost.

Cecconi slammed the last of the cabinet doors shut and stomped back into the bedroom.

Susan glanced at Betty. Both were tight-lipped. The money they had saved, the years of hard work could not be jeopardized now. We’ve had enough, Susan cried. We worked hard and now it’s over.

I wasn’t forcing you. You could have settled up and gone your way, Cecconi replied evenly. But you kept telling me you had these great fucking clients, all your rich lawyer friends—smack is in, just keep it flowing. Remember? That’s what you told me.

Well, there’s nothing left.

Do you think I believe you?

Those girls are up to their fucking eyeballs, Bronwyn muttered. We have to move in …

Not so fast, Bronny dear, Haggerty drawled, pulling on his blue and brown checkered jacket. We ain’t moving nowhere, he holstered his Glock semiautomatic pistol. Not yet. Not until I say so, he said, staring through his binoculars.

Susan and Betty were tied to the bedposts; their clothing was torn and their bras hung loose. The apartment had been thoroughly searched but there was no further sign of money or drugs.

Did I ever tell you opera is about greed, duplicity, sex and murder, Cecconi sat in an armchair and stared out at the bay. It’s what makes us part of the human family.

What? Susan glanced at Betty nervously. They’re mad, she tore at her cords. Leave us alone. Go away. Get out. What a mistake to get involved with a man like Cecconi. But she had been young and desperate. She eyed Betty fearfully and her heart broke. So innocent and beautiful—she prayed nothing would happen to her. She had to be the strong one, even though her insides churned. Look, I’m sure we can sort this out, she began bravely.

It’s time for the fat lady to sing, Cecconi replied indifferently.

Oh, ho, ho, Fan chortled and charged out of the apartment.

Oh, sisters, Skeet chuckled. You don’t know what’s coming your way, he gave a jubilant martial arts kick in the air.

Fan opened the trunk of the car and pulled out a leather suitcase together with an ornate box, inset with gold lettering—Hundred Greatest Operas—and a CD player. He barged back into the apartment with his hands full, which one?

Cecconi stared thoughtfully at the women. Two lovers hiding a dark secret … Tosca.

Fan scanned the titles. Tosca, Tosca with a T … ah, he pulled out the CD and inserted it into the player.

He then opened the leather suitcase, spilling an assortment of costumes and accessories onto the floor, from which the three men matter-of-factly helped themselves.

Cecconi donned a blue velvet frock cloak, knee length, elaborately embroidered with gilded buttons and frilly shirt, knee-length boots, a necktie looped in a loose knot with a stick pin, and finally, a black cape. Too much? He surveyed himself in the mirror and pressed a stiletto beard to his chin. Trilby or bowler? He tried on both and chose the bowler.

Skeet slipped on a multicoloured shirt with Piet Mondrian-like designs, with sleeves that were full, gathered at the wrist. Next, he pulled on a double-breasted waistcoat and breeches, which he tied just below the knee, and over that, a dark tailcoat with a wide lapel. He fitted on square-toed shoes with silver buckles and plastered a spade-shaped beard to his chin.

Fan dressed himself in a purple velvet smoking jacket with a silk puff tie, knee-length breeches, silk stockings and shoes fastened with jewelled buckles, and finally, he added a round beard.

They admired themselves like dandies in the full length mirror. This is good, Cecconi remarked. They looked as if they had stepped out of the nineteenth century—except for Skeet’s multicoloured shirt.

Bronwyn and Haggerty watched in astonishment. What the fuck are they doing? Haggerty muttered.

Those girls are being threatened, we have to—

—take it nice and slow, Haggerty interrupted.

Susan and Betty stared anxiously at the men as Fan tossed the remote to Cecconi, who became the conductor of opera and of life. With a flourish he opened Puccini’s glorious music, which filled the apartment with a hundred instruments.

What’s your name? Cecconi snapped his fingers at Betty.

Fan untied her and pulled her to her feet.

Betty, she whispered, staring at him in fear and uncertainty.

Betty, you’re Tosca, he cried jubilantly. Listen to the flute, oboe and clarinet. That’s you baby, bright and cheerful.

What?

Cecconi touched the remote and Tosca’s voice soared. You are Floria Tosca, the fashionable prima donna. You’re in love with Mario here, dreaming of a beautiful love nest in Mexico—non la sospiri la nostra casetta, and he played the graceful music, singing along in perfect sync.

He suddenly stopped in mid-aria, woman, this is not working. He eyed Betty balefully, boys, more colour, fix her up for God’s sake, he pointed to a pretty red Valentino cotton knit and flare dress lying on the floor.

Betty tried to bolt, but Fan caught her arm and swung her around. Skeet smacked her face with the flat of his hand. Don’t even think of it, honey. You now have a higher calling.

They tore off her clothes down to her bra and panties. You got to look real pretty for Mario, said Skeet as they pulled on the Valentino dress, turned her around, zippered her up and gazed at their handiwork with pride.

Beautiful, Cecconi beamed as Betty stood helpless before them.

Haggerty watched intently, while Bronwyn fidgeted nervously. What a bunch of sick weirdos. We can’t just sit here, she cried impatiently.

Haggerty pulled at the joints of his fingers. Get on with it, Felix. You have a reputation to uphold.

Do you bloody mind telling me what this is about?

I’ve been following him for two years … that’s what it’s about. Now, if that’s a little beyond your comprehension, leave it to me. I know what I’m doing.

I fucking hope so, she replied tartly, her eyes never leaving the creepy scene below them.

Cecconi continued to create a tableau with his troupe of newly acquired actors, cutting from one track to the next in a bizarre retelling of the opera as he drove each character towards their fate.

"Susan, you are Mario, the painter. You compare the features of your painting to those of your beloved Tosca. Listen to the woodwind and harp evoke an image of light brushstrokes while your rich voice fills the air in an erotic morbidezza."

He acted out the scene, a painter at work, singing Recondita Armonia, as fluently as any opera star. You always wanted to play a man, so here’s your chance.

What are you talking about?

He eyed her stonily, lose the bra. She must look a hero.

Skeet and Fan stripped her down to her panties, slipped on a cream coloured silk blouse, their fingers fumbling with the delicate buttons.

You’re insane, Susan struggled and hit out with her hands and feet as they pulled on a pair of black Armani straight-legged jeans. They slicked back her hair.

Don’t you dare touch her. Leave her alone! Betty shrieked. What are you doing to her? Get away from us. You’re all crazy, she burst into tears.

That’s good, Tosca. You love Mario. Now, weep for him, because he’s going to need it.

Skeet stood Susan up and buckled her belt with a flourish, she’s done.

Look, we can make a deal, she pleaded.

Cecconi ignored her, and played three crashing chords. That’s me—Scarpia, chief of police. I lust for you, Tosca. I want your pussy, and he stormed towards Betty.

She turned to flee, but ran into Fan. You’re not co-operating, woman. Spoletta! Cecconi bellowed at Skeet. You’re my evil assistant.

That’s me.

Arrest—

Who am I? Fan interjected.

My evil assistant’s assistant, Cecconi pointed his finger at Susan, arrest Mario.

Mario, you’re under arrest. Orders from Scarpia, Skeet hoisted Susan over his shoulders and headed to the next room.

Don’t do that to her, Betty cried out.

Then give me what I want, Cecconi snapped.

You’re sick. Sick, Susan banged her fists down on Skeet’s back. I’m calling the cops.

The cops? Haha! Tosca, come and beg me for Mario’s life. Come, come, girl, he eyed Betty ominously, clicked the remote and Vissi d’Arte, played at full tilt. You try to soften my heart. You refer to your life as an artist and religious woman and all I can think of are your tits.

Betty was paralyzed with fear as Fan propelled her forward. Cecconi looked at her expectantly. Fan gave her another shove. Don’t spoil the fucking story, woman. On your knees. Beg. I’m talking to you, Tosca. That’s you, Betty, for Christ’s sake. You want to fuck Mario. I want to fuck you. That’s life, baby.

Betty stood in mute terror.

Cecconi shouted to the next room, Spoletta, slap Mario around or we’ll be here all fucking day.

Skeet smacked Susan across her body, through her face, shoved her against the furniture until she couldn’t stop screaming.

Stop that, Betty howled. What are you doing to her?

Fan released his hold and Betty rushed to the doorway.

Susan was on her knees holding her broken nose, and Betty wailed in terror.

Fan caught her by the hair and pulled her backwards.

So you want to go to Mexico? Sure. Fine. Have a great life, but give me what is mine and I’ll let you go, Cecconi said quietly.

Betty sobbed like a child.

Goddammit, woman. Have you lost your fucking tongue?

But he could see that she was in no shape for dialogue. He looked out the window in frustration. Far below them, a million-dollar yacht decked out in fairy lights, skimmed the water with people dancing aboard. How different is a rich man’s reality.

He searched his coat pockets, fishing out several vitamin bottles from various corners. E, he swallowed two capsules. C, he downed several more. Selenium, I never know if selenium works with C or not—what the fuck, he knocked them back. I’m a walking antioxidant.

Skeet stuck his head around the door. The opera? We need the next move.

When Tosca hears Mario scream, Cecconi answered in the tone of a narrator, she tells me where to look.

Where? Fan asked eagerly, caught up in the story.

In the well in the garden, so the story goes.

Fan looked confused. What garden?

Cecconi was struck by the idea. Yeah, right, he laughed gleefully and bounced into the next room.

Susan was slumped over a chair with her arms bruised, her nose bleeding and her right eye swollen up.

How’s the torture going? Cecconi asked indifferently.

Cool.

So they both have their periods you said—how convenient.

Skeet looked at him thoughtfully. Haha! The well in the garden. You’re one cool operator. Within seconds Skeet had Susan flat on her back. Smart but not smart enough, he sneered.

Susan struggled with the little strength she had left, but was no match for the burly men. While Cecconi held her down, Skeet ripped off her slacks and panties. Placing his knee between her thighs, he dislodged her tampon. Look, you’re right, he held up the tampon victoriously. No blood.

Cecconi pulled out a pocketknife and sliced open the cotton to reveal a cigar-like plastic tube. Eureka, he crowed as he unscrewed the top and turned the tube upside down. A dozen white diamonds fell onto the table. Wow, man. Good hiding place, Susan. Those dumb Mexicans would never look here.

Cecconi marched back into the bedroom. Now where were we? Ah, he lifted Betty effortlessly off the ground and threw her onto the bed. Kicking and screaming, they pulled up her dress. You could have saved us a lot of trouble, you know that?

Cecconi pulled down her panties and spread her thighs. This is what I’m talking about, girl, he extracted the tampon and sliced it open to reveal the same plastic tube filled with diamonds.

Fan looked at him as if he were a magician, clapping his hands.

Haggerty stared in amazement. Can you fucking believe this?

No, Bronwyn was speechless.

So how does the story end? Skeet demanded.

Susan and Betty looked apprehensively at Cecconi, hanging on his every word, their lives dependent on the exegesis of an opera.

Like this … Cecconi handed the antiquated revolver to Betty. Go ahead. Shoot me, baby. ‘Thus it is that Tosca kisses,’ he quoted the opera.

Betty took the gun and aimed it at his chest, but her hands shook with fear.

Skeet and Fan stiffened. They knew the gun was loaded.

Kill him! Susan screamed.

Cecconi glared at her.

Betty wavered, beads of perspiration breaking over her forehead. She shut her eyes and screwed up her face, but still she couldn’t pull the trigger.

Cecconi stared into her face and saw something he had not seen before. Do I know you, Betty?

She looked at him in sullen silence.

Skeet dug out her passport. McKnight, Betty, born December—

McKnight. Jesus Christ. Betty McKnight? I’ll be damned. What a fucking coincidence. Last time I saw you, you was just a kid. So how’ve you been? He asked solicitously. Saw your dad only the other day. He looks good. But then why shouldn’t he, living off the fat of the land? Look, this is nothing personal. I got a gripe against that woman, not you.

That woman is the woman I love, she whispered hoarsely.

For Pete’s sake, Betty, she’s a dyke. Can’t you see that? What would your dad say?

I don’t speak to him.

This is the wrong woman for you. Anyway it’s too late, Cecconi tore the revolver from her hand, when the gun suddenly discharged, blowing a hole through the wall the size of a matchbox. Jesus Christ! He jumped back in fright, dropping the firing mechanism onto the table. Where the fuck did you find this piece—in a flea market?

Susan used this distraction to break free. She dove for the gun, but Skeet tackled her in midair, bringing her heavily to the ground.

That’s the last fucking straw, bitch, Cecconi grabbed the gun and aimed it at her head. I’ve had a gutful of you. But first, he flicked the remote and the fateful, March to the Scaffold, filled the room. You’re going to a better place, like the good opera says.

Betty threw herself onto Susan, covering her body with her own. Oh no, please, she begged. You have what you want. Let us go. I love her. Don’t do this. Please, I beg of you—

This is a mock execution, darling, Cecconi flashed his crocodile smile. Trust me.

Susan and Betty knew this was the end, that Cecconi was lying to them as Scarpia had lied to Tosca. I love you, my darling, Betty wept, kissing her face and shielding her from Cecconi.

No, no, don’t shoot her, Bronwyn cried.

Do it, Cecconi, don’t be a pussy, Haggerty’s eyes never left the scene below him.

You’re crazy, Bronwyn spun around and rushed for the door. We have to stop this.

Get back woman, Haggerty threw himself across the room and tore her fingers from the handle. We go when I tell you to go and not a fucking second before. Is that clear? He locked the door and stuffed the key into his pocket.

Open the fucking door, Bronwyn warned him.

Or what?

She pulled out her Glock and aimed it at his head. I said open the goddamn door.

Haggerty grinned. Go ahead and shoot me, and he strode towards the window. Be brave, Bronnie. Shoot me in the back if you can.

Cecconi pulled back the hammer and levelled the gun on Susan. But Betty was all over her, shielding her body from him. No, no, don’t do this, she cried in desperation. Please, I beg of you …

Cecconi hesitated at the sight of the two women cowering on the floor before him. He looked at his men. Damn, this ain’t fun no more.

Skeet shrugged, the opera says we must do it.

Cecconi caught sight of his reflection in the wall mirror and stared at himself as if he did not quite recognize the man standing over two defenceless women. Oh no, he muttered in disappointment. Is that me?

He wondered what his late mother or fourteen-year old son would think of him?

His eye was caught by a typed quotation fixed to the corner of the mirror. He approached the mirror and oblivious to the company, read the note out loud: "People pay for what they do, and still more, for what they have allowed themselves to become. And they pay for it simply: by the lives they lead. James Baldwin."

That’s good, Susan. Did you hear that, guys? He repeated slowly: We pay for what we do by the lives we lead. That’s saying it as it is.

A thought suddenly struck him. What if we changed our lives, then we wouldn’t have to pay for it, not the bad parts anyway, he snapped his fingers, just like that, man. We could do it today. Now. He looked eagerly at his men and at the cowering women before him. Because this is not working for me.

They stared at him blankly.

I mean, why are we doing this?

We’re in a rut, Skeet volunteered.

Well, it’s time we got out of this rut, Jesus. We need a change. A new direction. We got to find some meaning.

What if there is no meaning? Skeet proposed.

There has to be … a dream, a hope, something.

Yeah, sure. And where we going to find this something?

In one of them tampons, Fan guffawed and then more seriously. How about God? He touched the crucifix around his neck.

God? Cecconi looked at him in surprise. God is a scumbag. We can’t rely on him.

Susan and Betty stared at them open-mouthed, bewildered by this turn of events. A moment before, Susan was about to be executed. Now her executioner was searching for the meaning of life.

You know, Skeet ventured, "I always wanted to design … you know, shirts. My dad used to say it was a fag thing, but I understand how to turn this into a living, breathing,