By Colleen Foley
When I’d exhausted every foul word I know, I
gulped the last of my coffee and whistled for the check. The waitress
gave me a look that could’ve withered my balls to ashes, then slapped it
on the table. I left a twenty in apology and headed for the door.
“Great. Whacko weather and witches, with the ashes of a vodun. Let’s go.”
The car spewed torrents of gravel behind it, as I gunned out of the parking lot.
“All right, genius. What kind of weather is so weird that we’re the only ones Jimmy trusts to check it out?”
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