MR. FIORE
I've bumped up your icicles to the
front of the sled - we've got to
do something different, I thought.
It's Winter again and the windows
stay closed. Are there any men
left in Siberia?
-
A cavalcade of carolers can be
shot for less - the chain-link
fence running along the gas
station, the form of some deer
being barely made out. The
next morning, same roadway,
different day, there it is on
the side of the road. Dead
as can be. Poor me.
Poor Mr. Fiore.
-
He hit the deer and set it
free; well, I suppose the
optimist would say that.
Vale of tears, and place
of woe. But then again,
what's a dumb deer know?
Poor me. Poor it, and
Poor Mr. Fiore too.
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