Jack the dog was wise to his world. Where others before him and there were many would cave-in to their natural instinct to chase a car, to leap before looking and other behaviors we'd naturally expect from man's best friend; Jack had learned to be cool. Among the many dogs that had hung out around here he was a survivor. The best thing I loved Jack the dog for was how he recieved the people he had come to love. His greeting to start with was much like other crazy mutts; his tail would be wagging at a crazy speed and it would appear that he was laughing if dogs can do that. There would be a flurry of barking and yelping. Then he would try to get you to stop for him by plopping right down in front of you with his head pointed straight up like a performing seal at a circus. And then he would work his magic, licking through your hands and fingers as only a dog and a dog's tongue can do. He seemed to get so much satisfaction from sniffing and taking in the whole flavor of whomever he was greeting. You'd rub his head and he'd give you the best eye contact just short of what you would expect from a beautiful moment with your own mother. In Jack the dog's world it seemed that you could never be unhappy.

So, Jack the dog and I visited for a spell a few feet from the Martindale's screen door because Jack wouldn't have it any other way. When I was certain that he knew what I had had for breakfast and lunch I continued onto to the screen door and knocked at the bottom panel a couple of times because any pressure on the ballooning screen above was going to cause a screen door cave in. Dale was in there somewhere because I could hear the Rubbles chortling from the television in the living room. For some time now Roy's younger sister had been getting all strange when Roy and I hung out. Fortunately that was almost never around here or Gran's; it wasn't cool. Roy and I liked a tight ship and little dip-shits and adults were not cool.

"Hi Paul,"said Dale over emphasizing my name."

Christ, she's wearing make up! I thought I'd puke!

"Where's Roy?"

"He's indisposed," said Dale grinning towards the staircase leading upstairs to the washroom and the family bedrooms.

"Roy, - Paul's here!" she called behind.

Before she could add an invitation for me to wait inside I volunteered to wait outside and away from this fourteen year old hussy.

She wasn't having any of that and came out and sat on the top step of the porch with her knees bundled up by her crossed arms - grinning at me and posing like Miss June from recent Play Boy magazine. Thank God for small mercies Jack the dog with his cold wet nose and his foot long tongue came up the stoop to greet Dale. Nothing remotely romantic about this picture now as Jack the dog insisted on checking out Dale and what she had to eat in the past twelve hours or so. I smiled. Not a kind one really but one more like I had just gotten away with a little something. I could hear Roy rustling just inside the door way. Thank God, I mused some more.

And Boom - Roy came out the door with his pants untucked from his cowboy boots for the first time ever. Wow! What goes on with these two - an epiphany perhaps? Shit! And down the walk he went with a clutter. Dale still behind us blushing awkwardly and looking after us.

"You gotta do something with that sister of yours!" I said to Roy being careful and tolerant cause he'd blackened a guy's eye just a few years ago for just insinuating that she might be a little different.

"What do you mean?" asked Roy not perplexed at all. It seemed that he had something else on his mind.

"Well, the last while whenever I come over she's like hanging around - it's like she's got the hots for me or something."

"You know I haven't really noticed. At least she's not chasing some gang banger around. What's the matter anyways," he smiled, "She thinks you're handsome."

"It's just a little creepy; I've known her for so long. She's just a kid, like a little sister."

"Okay old man, but you might have to get over it. I overheard Gran talking to your mom on the phone last night... I don't think she's coming home again. And Dale might become more like a sister than you think. You might become the next Martindale!" said Roy half kidding and part trying to be apologetic.

Well, our talk got a lot more difficult as we walked the usual course - checking out the school, the park and Casey's eventually. The situation with my mom was a bad one. I really wanted to just go home or find somewhere I could sit and reorganize this bullshit into something that made sense. All my short fucking life I've lived in uncertainty. My world has been nothing but different homes, different towns, different schools and until the last five years or so different friends. Gran was so good. She'd seen all of this so many times before. But I don't want someone to take me in. She'd done a lot of good just getting my mom to stay in one place for a while. Giving her a job, putting up with her issues and chasing the troublemaking pricks away. They're great people, but I don't want to be a Martindale in any way. If I can't be a part of my own family; I'll go it alone that's all I got to say about it!

Roy is a real good guy; a once in a lifetime friend that you can talk to about anything. I could tell that he was keeping quiet and feeling me out and that he wanted to help. That's what good friends do.

"You know Gran says your mother has a good heart but she just needs a little more time to grow up. Someday she'll be fine," offered Roy as we hit the dirt path for Shelagh Creek.

Shelagh Creek ran between civilization and boredom or more geographically speaking;between the towns of Shelagh and Preston. The town of Shelagh is where Roy and I lived. It wasn't even marked on some maps. It was a tiny service community for highway traffic now and railway traffic in the past that hadn't stopped here in years. Shelagh Creek was just a creek most of the time and a raging river during spring runoff or after a heavy summer rain. It was too cold to swim in at any time even if you were piss drunk. But it had a romantic lure to it. If you ever lived near a body of water for a while you will soon find yourself falling in love with it. There were dozens of hang outs along its course where you could sit and watch the water run by, party, fish or whatever your medicine was. There were just a few ways over it around here, a bridge just off the highway a few miles down the road and a railway trestle conveniently located near town.

Often, we'd walk the trestle to cross old Shelagh and after another thirty minute or so hike we'd be in the town of Preston. It was safe enough to cross the trestle by foot if you knew the times of day when it might see some train traffic but you still wouldn't want to be caught on it by the cops or somebody in a position of authority. Not that they would have a chance in hell of catching you in the act but it's pretty hard to hide out later in a small town like Shelagh. Everyone knows everyone in this town.

Metropolitan Preston had everything Shelagh didn't; a mall, a movie theatre, our highschool and a LCBO. This summer was just getting underway and Roy, Terry and I had some big plans for it. Terry was a summer friend these days. His mum had worked at Gran's Diner up till a year ago like my mum had until just lately. Terry was now living in Toronto through the school year and his summers were spent here in Shelagh with us. His mum and Gran thought this arrangement would help keep Terry out of trouble. That was a joke. The trouble they thought he'd avoid he'd just bring with him and Roy and I benefitted from it, - totally!

The school year was just about to end and the last Roy and I had heard was that Terry would be back with us in just a few days. The whole summer was before us. The three of us seventeen now and now just like we've been told so many times; the world was now at our door step. The nice weather was just a little slow in coming this season but you could now get along without a jacket.

At the bottom of the gorge Roy and I stopped along the Shelagh at Kettle Rock - named for its shape and enormous size. There we sat and scratched in our names some more where the winter weather had faded them.We smoked a few cigarettes and basically took in the sun for a spell hoping that somebody we knew would come by with a few doobs or some gossip.

"Hey punks!" someone shouted.

Roy and I craned our necks around looking for the source of the shout. The only people in sight were a few young kids down a ways, who were themselves looking around but up the path from the gorge. A lone and now familiar figure could be seen taking big steps down the hill side laughing loudly and kicking stones up as he descended the steep path.

"Hey, - you punks!"

I couldn't see Terry's grin but I could picture his big grin that accompanied that laugh that I had heard so many times. So he came up a few days early. I gotta hear this story. It had been Christmas since we had seen each other. His hair appeared about another five months longer and it now hung down his back. He was wearing some kind of fake buckskin jacket or shirt that had raw hide string laced at it's breast. His denim jeans were patched with the Sticky Finger's mouth and tongue logo on the thigh.

"Fuck, - what a freak," commented Roy who was kind of in awe.

I laughed to myself - the big city got the boy! I was impressed and I was envious. Fashion was a year behind up here. Maybe no one else around here missed Terry while he was away, but Roy and I sure did. I felt kind of emotional like I wanted to hug the guy. A kind of aura always hung about the guy. Terry often said that being cool was mostly in how you presented yourself. It was a phony self confidence that didn't sit so well with Roy and me. Perhaps it was because we could never bring ourselves to dress like those other Hollywood types that stuck out from the crowds of people that Roy and I would see around the front entrances of schools, at dances or Casey's. It seemed kind of pretentious to spend money on clothing when there seemed to be bigger dividends from buying records or some good dope.

"You guys look just like the way I left yahs! Same shirts! Same pants!" said Terry grinning while digging out a pack of smokes from his back pocket. The cigarettes were flattened slightly like always. He lit up with a giant flame from his chromed Zippo. You could smell the lighter fluid. A smell I hadn't missed.

"You're looking good bud. How was T.O.?" I asked.

"The big city has been good to me - Yes," he added agreeing with himself while taking a good long drag on his cigarette.

"You come up with your mum?" asked Roy who was noticeably quiter now that our old lead dog was back; thus supplanting Roy's influence over me I guess.

"I come up on the bus alone. My old lady was too busy to drive me up here this weekend. I'd of loved to have stayed there. T.O. is the fucking best. But there was no living with that prick boyfriend of hers! So, here I am. Pump a little gas at Gran's and party as much as I can with my old buds!" smiled Terry.

He was right about his mum's comon-law; he was one of the biggest assholes I had ever met. Throwing his weight around, putting his nose where it didn't belong. What a fucking boor; any time he came up for a visit.

Terry always referred to his mum as his old lady because it pissed Roy off. I don't know about the two of them. Why can't they just relax and get along? I know they could if I wasn't around. I'd seen it. Three's a crowd sometimes I suppose.

"Did you bring back any of that big city dope?" asked Roy with a hopeful light in his eye.

"Well - I'd like to say I brought an ounce with me, but I only have a couple of doobs. It's a bit mild. Mostly leaf. I brought them up with me - just for us. We'll get a buzz but it won't be nothing to write home about."

"Is the dope scene tight down there?" asked Roy inquisitively.

"No the money has been tight," replied Terry and exhaling one last drag from his cigarette and crushing it under his foot. "Hey, let's light these guys up somewhere outta sight," added Terry displaying two slightly flattened joints from his pack of cigarettes.

Around here it was wise and advisable to smoke and drink out of the way of people because if it wasn't some big mouth square who was going to shoot his mouth off about who's smoking dope wherever who happened by, it was going to be someone else dropping by with suction lips who was going to smoke half of whatever you had to smoke, or drink half of whatever you might have left in your case of beer. You wanted to avoid leeches and fucking rats around a small town like Shelagh. So we hiked down Shelagh Creek a little further to where the water ran faster and there was more tree cover. No one should notice three long-hairs passing a doob between them in the bottom of a gorge unless they have a pair of binoculars we figured.

The dope was a little harsh but I could feel a nice buzz building after about the third toke. In the middle of the second doob we were all smiling appreciatively at each other. A buddy with a stoned smile, you know that silly grin with the red squinty eyes; it always elicited cool laughter and an unusual communal feeling when you are smoking with friends. And it was at this point between breaths being held and talk being interupted while exhaling that Terry announced that he had a line on some good acid, Purple Micro Dot to be precise and that a buddy back in T.O could mail it to us if we could come up with a few bucks. Roy's eyes bulged even more when he suddenly realized that it was going to be his mailing address. I thought he was going to complain but I think that he quickly realized that mail comming to any of us was going to come through Gran's.

None of us had ever tried any dope stronger than hashish. Acid was the old holy grail of recreational pharmaceuticals. It was historically thought to be the most the popular sixties drug. The seventies these days seemed to be all about more potent varieties of weed, hashish and oil. Good LSD like this could be - might not show up again for another year or two. It seemed like a good idea to follow up on this one.

"How are we going to know if this shit is any good? I don't even know what it should look like," complained Mister Negative.

"You got nothing to worry about Roy. My buddy will try it out long before we get a hold of it. He won't screw us around..." assured Terry who I believe was anticipating Roy's worry.

"I think it's like - a little blotter that you stick under your tongue," I offered but I didn't really know.

"I think it's going to be a fucking gas! That's what I think it's going to be like!" announced Terry with a big grin and spreading bangs of of long black hair away from his face.

Our old friend Terry seems to have gotten much, more worldly during his absence. I sometimes wondered why he hung out with people like Roy and me. I wouldn't want to call us losers but we had been called that before by others. To be frank, the three of us were all someone's bad luck. I wouldn't want to say that my mum never wanted me, but I've never known a man I could called Dad either. Roy and Dale; named after Roy Rogers and Dale Evans no less, were fathered by a dreamer and a hell of a nice guy by all accounts who ran the gas pumps and service station for his mum - Gran before he died tragically in a tow-truck accident when his kids were so young that Roy can't even remember what he looked like. Their mum still works for Gran in the diner. My mum was one of her best friends until she became increasingly more and more missing in action each weekend. Terry has had more fathers than the Roman Catholic Church, so he kids us; the latest being a real piece of work by the sounds of it.

I think people in general, and I mean those other people - the ones besides Gran's orphans, and those like me - treat us differently. We're half pitied and half loathed outside of Gran's domain. It's not like I feel like a street urchin living in a Charles Dicken's novel or anything. But if it's a teacher, a cop or whoever - they look at you like you are nothing more than a silhouette of a person; they don't consider your eyes, your expression or that you might have part of a family or have feelings. You just feel cold around these people.

If it were not for Gran, life would be a lot more difficult for the likes of me, what family I have and my friends. I suppose she had some hard living of her own under her belt; she'd been widowed a long time ago. As a young girl she admitted to have been ashamed of being poor but she said she just got busy and industrious and as time went on she told us she learned that starting from the bottom was as good as any other place to start from. And she often would say that she never had any time to look down on others because she had spent so much of her time in her formative years looking up to everyone ahead of her. God bless the likes of Gran, my mum has said more than a few times to me.

Old Shelagh would never look better than this during the year. Late in June its foilage was at its peak for green; the ferns were waist high and the leafy tree canopy of tall oaks, silver maple and walnut trees energized by just a brief breeze would illuminate the forest bed in a moving light show of shadow and light. And it was mesmerizing even without a buzz on, to watch the forest bed to come to life in this way. It brought silence upon the three of us who were minutes earlier were laughing and teasing each other. Roy often insisted that something just like this was the perfect ambience for a powerful stereo, if there were only some way to power such a thing down here. I always thought that if the music was good enough, perhaps something by the Perceptions, it wouldn't matter if you heard it from a two inch speaker, through a ten dollar transistor radio and then down a twenty foot pipe because it would still sound just grand in such an alien environment as this compared to a hi-fi in a living room or bedroom back at home.

It was a steep climb back up to the top. We would head to Preston another time; the day was more than half done, anyhow. A soda from Casey's and a few cigarettes at the school's baseball bleachers would help get the dope off our breath. Then we'd see Gran and find out where Terry was going to hang his hat for the next while.

Perhaps it was the pot, perhaps it was the early summer heat but we were tired when we headed back home. Gran's Diner and Gas Bar was a little busy for a late Friday afternoon; several trucks were lined up along the shoulder of the road and one or two more were in the lot. If you liked coffee and home cooked meals Gran's was the best around these parts if you were passing through. The three of us walked the narrow strip of gravel shoulder that was left for pedestrians or truckers who wanted to check their rigs. We passed two quads and another pair of identical trains loaded with steel coils and slabs. Gran catered to anyone passing through be they truckers, families in their station wagons hauling boat trailers or the many men that travelled the Trans Canada on business. She had sign boards that had been up for more than twenty years an hour's drive in each direction along the highway. You could just make out her diner's neon sign from the highway. She was not a quarter mile from it and many said that it was going to be just a matter of time before some big outfit would set up business along the same stretch and put her out of business. Well, it hasn't happened yet. I don't think Gran would be able to compete with a big chain - all shiny and new with fresh sparkling faces working behind fancy counter-tops under a million watts of florescent light.

Terry woke us up from our walking slumber,"Jack is here! My old buddy!"he added with a mischevious twinkle in his eye.

Old Jack was a near octogenarian and a boyfriend of Gran's. It was more put on then for real, but Gran lavished a lot of attention on him. I don't think they entertained themselves with anything more intimate than sharing a couch to watch Hockey Night in Canada on Tuesdays and Saturdays. He was a character; who always drove big Fords and drove them fast - with two feet; one for the brake and the other for the gas and only one palm on the steering wheel. This summer it was an old white Ford Galaxie that he was driving about and often seen stopped in the road with him conversing to somebody standing on a street corner.

Dale often referred to old Jack by a tag she had heard from many of the diner's waitresses as the diner's angel and I suppose there was some truth to it. It was his nature as long as I had known him that he always took a genuine interest in others, albeit, from a little distance. Whenever, I, Roy or Dale or any of the diner's kids entered the main dining room you would have some uncanny eye contact for a moment with the man. He was almost always good natured and his easy smile was perhaps all that ever occurred to you at any time. Dale and I considered old Jack to be the retired bouncer of the diner. Before old Jack's health got to be a problem you would see him sit with troublemakers for a minute or so for a quiet chat and then they'd be gone or they'd 'shape up or ship out'. That was one of old Jack's isms; he had many of them like 'keep up your dukes - kid' and he'd have his fist'd clenched up like a boxer would while he'd feint to the left and to the right like a boxer and of course there would be his smile and a wink to accompany it.

Onetime, several years ago, and Roy and I have reflected on it many times there was a perv that came to the diner for a time. He was a creep who was I guess not well rooted in reality because he was far too friendly in the touchy feely hockey coach kind of way. And in the diner, eyebrows were raised and the waitresses were furrowing their brows at one another as this guy would give unwanted attention to one of the kids who would need to come and see his waitress mother at times off and on through the normal course of a work day.

Anyways, there was all kinds body language going on around this hapless guy and he wasn't getting it. One afternoon, old Jack came in for his traditional coffee and pie thing and he brought along a big bubba. Bubba meaning a tractor mechanic's apprentice; these guys were traditionally huge country boys who wanted jobs off the farm and had come to town to learn a trade in one of the many garages about. This one has long left town for greener pastures but I bet he was six'four and better than three hundred pounds. I remember because he had to take in a long deep breath to help fit his belly and barrel chest in behind the booth's arborite table top as he sat across from this guy while glaring at him with one of those stern zombie like stares that only country folk can do when they stare down a stubborn animal or something, yet still somehow maintain a mom's apple pie kinda of face thing. Anyways, the guy's smirky grin just melted away under this big country boy's lurking stare.

All sorts of unfortunate things happened to that poor guy that afternoon. Someone had broken into his apartment and packed all his things in boxes and bags while he was out and I bet he had car trouble twice before he finally got out of town for good. You know, it's only dawned on me now as I think about it - maybe I now know how Jack the dog got his name.

"I liked the old door," said Terry pulling open the aluminum and plate glass door that opened into a vestibule I suppose. It was a mud room according to Gran and it would help with the heating bills, too said Gran when it was installed just a few weeks earlier. The old screen door with the yellow Pepsi cap sign was gone to a junk heap somewhere. Roy thought it was an antique now seeing that Pepsi could only be found in cans these days. We had to squeeze about one of the new-hire waitresses who was giving one of her own a spit wash. Terry was groaning in juvenile laughter as we passed the poor red-faced bugger who wanted to be anywhere but where he was currently at, at the moment.

The diner was busy for this time of day but above the din I could hear old Jack some twenty feet away seated in his favorite booth.

"Well lookie here. The Three Musketeers are back together!"

A few heads did turn but not for much more than a passing moment. It was going to be a short chat with old Jack because sitting across from him was the local officer of the law: Terry Sawchuck. Mr. Sawchuck for me - and didn't Terry and Roy make a quick ninety towards the juke box like they were really interested. So it was just me, old Jack, Mr. Sawchuck and thank God because she was sitting right next to old Jack in the tall backed booth that Gran's diner was famous for was the ever efferescent Dale - wearing the same smile that had made me so uncomfortable a few hours earlier.

Old Jack had become a lot more affectionate these days and he liked to touch you and shake your hand and always compliment you on something until you started blushing. I was already red, I could feel it and Mr. Sawchuck's disapproval - he never liked anyone who happened to be male and who didn't hold a job. He only asked questions and only reluctantly would he answer even a hello from someone like me in return. I was trouble and so was every one of my friends a potential problem for him. But today he was smiling even though it wasn't genuine; he was conducting some public relations or public education or some kind of business because the man was always on the job. So while old Jack went on and on - on how big and strapping I was Mr. Sawchuck nodded politely and sipped coffee while he checked out Terry across the room who had now just left the juke box with Roy for the kitchen.

"Mr. Sawchuck just told us there is a bushman spotted down by Shelagh Creek," piped in Dale feigning some melodrama with her expression. Dale got along with all men over thirty; it was a given. And it creeped me out how sometimes she could spend hours in the diner talking and listening to the crazy truckers and passers-through and just about anybody else wearing pants for that matter.

So I interjected that the bushman was likely just a bum who fell off a train and will be on his way in no time. Not even a fucking bum would hang around here longer than he had to as far as I was concerned.

But I was interrupted by Mr. Sawchuck, "I've seen him. Two mornings to be precise. Once this week and once last week. And I'll assure you he's no common CN rail vagrant."

And then there was this controlled crash from the kitchen like a stack of plates being put down as if they were a deck of loose cards to shuffle, and then Gran's hellion 'call to arms:" Terry Talbot! Don't make me throw this! You take that cigarette outside, now!"

A few eyebrows were raised again and an unpleasant quiet came over the diners and staff about the room, but there was no further noise from the kitchen. The source of the trouble had likely complied and retreated outside a backdoor at the rear of the kitchen, so the diners began to talk again and sip coffee like nothing at all had happened.

Gran was of Irish background and when she was angry it was focused and harsh on whoever was on the brunt of it. In the past thieves had been seen running frantically from her sight as her arms would begin swinging like windmills throwing cups and saucers and the like with quite a bit of precision.

"You best go now and see to your young friend," nodded old Jack in my direction. "It sounds like a near murder may have taken place back there," he added, feigning some concern for Terry as I stepped away and left them for the kitchen and Dale was rolling her eyes at me at the time.

The cook wouldn't dare smoke in the kitchen. And all the staff and they all smoked liked chimneys smoked either outside or in the dining room. What was Terry thinking? Roy's own mother also of Irish heritage had taken on the same ferociousness like Gran and he and Dale secretely referred to her as the 'beserker'. The Vikings had invaded and settled in Ireland many times over the centuries and Roy was sure his family was of Norse background. It just sounded crazy to me but I never made Gran mad, the little woman was far too frightening.

I crossed the black and white tiled floor like a chessman zigging and zagging around other diners who were negotiating the tight confines of the diner at late afternoon or rush hour; that's when those who can stop for a coffee and take their rigs off the road do while some of the traffic on the highway takes care of itself. I rounded the corner of the counter and hit the brakes for Gran coming full speed out the saloon doors leading out of the kitchen.

"Paul honey, can you and Roy take Terry to the spare room above the garage. He needs to get his things out of my diner," she winked while passing me with two plates in her hands; banquet burgers with fries and gravy. "Thanks, and you three come back here at about seven for dinner."

I waved to some of the staff who looked up to see me walk through the kitchen and out to the kitchen's backdoor where Terry and Roy were hanging - grinning like a couple of dope smokers.

"Wow man, if I look as stoned as you two the three of us should not be hanging around here. Did you see Sawchuck burn holes into you bud?" I laughed to Terry quietly.

"Hey, this all the shit I could manage with on the bus," said Terry with the short remains of a cigarette in his pursed lips.

He stooped to pick up an old suitcase that had seen better days and Roy volunteered to gather up the cardboard box of records. By the way Roy groaned it must have weighed fifty pounds or so. But Roy was smiling, he loved records. 78's, 45's or long plays it didn't matter. They were all precious.

"Do we need a key?" asked Terry.

"No," volunteered Roy.

"That's going to have to change," replied Terry.

The old garage had not seen much action lately. Mechanics these days liked modern bays with hoists. The old garage had just a couple of bays and only one had a hoist, the other had a pit with a high ceiling above it. The bay with the pit was perfect for a tractor, but pits had their limits I suppose. Nonetheless, all the bays were just used for storage. The last time I saw someone in here with a vehicle was old Jack who would change his own oil now and then. Even he goes to a quick lube in Preston these days.

At the back of the garage was a long single flight of stairs that led to a loft of sorts. Roy and Dale's dad had an office in there at one time. Now it's a guest room for unfussy visitors like Terry.

"I think you lucked out with this one, Terry. How come Gran let you up here instead of back at Roy and Dale's like last year?"

"That's where you're stayin' if your mom dosen't show up," grinned Terry while Roy was looking studiously at the collection of lp's he had piled on to a table top.

Terry got an "I don't fucking think so' look from me.

"Anything good in that pile of shit - Roy?" I asked.

"Only a couple of new ones and we've heard them I think," replied Roy as he carefully inspected the condition of the vinyl of Terry's copy of the Perception's first album.

He must have got his caring from his dad. Everything Roy owned in most cases still had it's original packaging. Records, photos, magazines and anything that Roy thought had some value were kept with care. The guy should find a job as a curator in a museum I thought. I thumbed through the pages of a skin magazine that came in the same box as the records; Roy would never look at them. Well, maybe he might ten years from but now right now they were new and tacky.

Those guys leave nothing for the imagination anymore and those women are done up like packaged food. Once you open up the box the contents inside just don't resemble anything like what was pictured on the outer packaging he told us. Roy liked everything - real. However, old Roy would jump at an old cheesecake magazine from the sixties. He liked the likes of Suzanna Pritchard and Ginny Bell. The black and white photos and the more buxomly type of woman that populated the pages of pornography before plastic implants became an affordable investment seemed to intrigue him ever so.

It had been several hours now that I had not had to think about my mother thanks to that prick Terry and he knew this very well. We were all good friends but the three of us were constantly putting one another in check. He was now reclined on a cot a minute or so from sleep. Roy was in his element still examining records and their jackets and I struck up a match to light a smoke and ponder my immediate future. I pushed the glossy magazine away and exhaled a bit of stress away.


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