The bugler presses his lips to the cold mouthpiece, like a timid kiss upon a reticent lover. He exhales breath through the brass, whispering transgressive words outside the authorized yelps of 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir'. The horn is warm enough to hold a pitch. He would certainly need an audience, so he bugles the Assembly Call.
Surkley relinquishes his 118th pull-up, which would have been new personal record had he kept records. Biggins lowers his aim and sets the safety, stunting artillery training that would have saved his platoon in April. Williams trails off mid-punchline; Mosly and Burton devour no more mashed potatoes and chortle at no more lewd jokes. They all stopped: Gutierrez, Hamplin, "Ratboy", Codwell, Lyons, a hundred more privates with names he knew, a thousand more privates with names he didn't. The officers arrive in response to an order they did not issue.
They congregate in the field, leaving barracks vacant like beetle shells. Charmed by the bugler's call, they salute at attention. They stand, some holding chicken wings, some bearded with shaving cream, some wearing only towels, some bearing rifles, some bearing poems to Kentuckian lovers, some bearing misanthropy, some bearing the flamboyance of a soldier playing soldier.
Things are silent and still while the bugler draws his bugle. Nothing in his repertoire would suffice, not Mess Call, not Taps, not Reveille, not To The Color. None of these captured how he felt. He raised the bugle and blew. The song went on and on. All the soldiers danced.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
skit #10: Pia Caçez
Pia Neto loves him so. But Papi Neto only now deduced the groom is a mooch. It has been so clear.
To a father, Pia is his innocent little partridge. Papi always provided so she has never farmed, never cooked, never worked, never schooled. But Papi knows to a man, she is the worst between gangly troll and an inept princess. Her skeleton is threaded with spidery sinews, too grotesque for a ball yet too delicate for a plow. When not sullen, she is spiteful. The same wilted libido as her mother (God rest her soul), Papi supposed. None could love this aberrant girl as selflessly as her father.
The groom, the Caçez boy, could not love dear Pia. He slumps and fidgets, enduring the chore of his wedding ceremony. The groom's face sags apathetically like modeling putty, except his two duplicitous escudos eying the silks and rings Papi wears. He stares through Pia at Papi. Round and around the groom's fingers trace the wedding ring's shape.
And the groom's family are rapacious money mongers. Papi Caçez has asked Papi Neto of the merchant's life for mere pleasantries. How much to export a kilogram of coffee to Moscow? How do you protect a Libson warehouse from a Coimbra mansion? What is the most silver you've smuggled? All the Caçez daughters have wed into rich families, and they wish to make a bride of the groom. The Caçez mothers survive to execute the fathers' wills.
And the help. The chef bought thirty kilograms of linguiça at the price of an entire pig farm. The wait staff poured more wine down their throats than into guests' glasses. The pastor can now bribe his way into Heaven after succumbing to such avarice. Papi Neto paid them all after the ceremony, though he certainly did not tip.
The Caçez boy plucked the ring from Papi Neto's hand and Pia Caçez from Papi Neto's family.
To a father, Pia is his innocent little partridge. Papi always provided so she has never farmed, never cooked, never worked, never schooled. But Papi knows to a man, she is the worst between gangly troll and an inept princess. Her skeleton is threaded with spidery sinews, too grotesque for a ball yet too delicate for a plow. When not sullen, she is spiteful. The same wilted libido as her mother (God rest her soul), Papi supposed. None could love this aberrant girl as selflessly as her father.
The groom, the Caçez boy, could not love dear Pia. He slumps and fidgets, enduring the chore of his wedding ceremony. The groom's face sags apathetically like modeling putty, except his two duplicitous escudos eying the silks and rings Papi wears. He stares through Pia at Papi. Round and around the groom's fingers trace the wedding ring's shape.
And the groom's family are rapacious money mongers. Papi Caçez has asked Papi Neto of the merchant's life for mere pleasantries. How much to export a kilogram of coffee to Moscow? How do you protect a Libson warehouse from a Coimbra mansion? What is the most silver you've smuggled? All the Caçez daughters have wed into rich families, and they wish to make a bride of the groom. The Caçez mothers survive to execute the fathers' wills.
And the help. The chef bought thirty kilograms of linguiça at the price of an entire pig farm. The wait staff poured more wine down their throats than into guests' glasses. The pastor can now bribe his way into Heaven after succumbing to such avarice. Papi Neto paid them all after the ceremony, though he certainly did not tip.
The Caçez boy plucked the ring from Papi Neto's hand and Pia Caçez from Papi Neto's family.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
skit #9: the drunk in the drink
He should not be here.
In lieu of gills, he trafficked faithful gulps of air through his supply line, a rubber esophagus. His hair remained parted. His mustache remained handlebarred. His woolen long underwear and denim were damp with anxiety, not bilge. He plodded across the sea floor arduously. He sensed nothing except the darkness, the loneliness, and his muted lumbering.
His captain and crew remained on deck, keeping Boquois' air supply and their uniforms dry. The diver's turmoil echoed through the tube, muddling to susurruses between the depths and surface. Idle crew peered overboard, sharing divinations and reveries upon the effervescence stirred by Boquois' dealings: perhaps peseta-laden galleons, perhaps pearls in oysters as big as barrels, perhaps liasions with mermaids.
The text book pictures lied. No kelp forests climbing to the same sun his air line did. No jellyfish undulating seductively. No coral reefs painting an impressionistic carpet. No scarlet starfish piling like butchers' tongues, interleaved and amorous. No galleons or barrel-sized oysters. No seals. No sharks. No octopussies. No kraken. The diver's domed glass helmet reflected the bland drink that swallowed him.
He roved a vast circle, tethered by his air supply. Mist clouded with each step. Later, he would record in his corporate findings '11° 23′ 0″ S, 143° 59′ 0″ E: Sand, silt, diatoms, detritus, failed spawnings, and chum.' Light filtered above him. Dark brewed about him.
His visor fogged with tired breath. Dim in the south-easterly depths, he glimpsed frolicking feminine silhouettes. He plowed towards the motions in monumental inches, snorting and squealing like a boar. The water carried the sisters' flirtacious sounds, giggling. At the end of his leash, he groped fistfuls of the abyss. He reached desperately again, again, again.
His line tugged thrice, and the captain gave order to reel him in. Boquois caught his breath, told no tales, and dove again into the dark depths.
In lieu of gills, he trafficked faithful gulps of air through his supply line, a rubber esophagus. His hair remained parted. His mustache remained handlebarred. His woolen long underwear and denim were damp with anxiety, not bilge. He plodded across the sea floor arduously. He sensed nothing except the darkness, the loneliness, and his muted lumbering.
His captain and crew remained on deck, keeping Boquois' air supply and their uniforms dry. The diver's turmoil echoed through the tube, muddling to susurruses between the depths and surface. Idle crew peered overboard, sharing divinations and reveries upon the effervescence stirred by Boquois' dealings: perhaps peseta-laden galleons, perhaps pearls in oysters as big as barrels, perhaps liasions with mermaids.
The text book pictures lied. No kelp forests climbing to the same sun his air line did. No jellyfish undulating seductively. No coral reefs painting an impressionistic carpet. No scarlet starfish piling like butchers' tongues, interleaved and amorous. No galleons or barrel-sized oysters. No seals. No sharks. No octopussies. No kraken. The diver's domed glass helmet reflected the bland drink that swallowed him.
He roved a vast circle, tethered by his air supply. Mist clouded with each step. Later, he would record in his corporate findings '11° 23′ 0″ S, 143° 59′ 0″ E: Sand, silt, diatoms, detritus, failed spawnings, and chum.' Light filtered above him. Dark brewed about him.
His visor fogged with tired breath. Dim in the south-easterly depths, he glimpsed frolicking feminine silhouettes. He plowed towards the motions in monumental inches, snorting and squealing like a boar. The water carried the sisters' flirtacious sounds, giggling. At the end of his leash, he groped fistfuls of the abyss. He reached desperately again, again, again.
His line tugged thrice, and the captain gave order to reel him in. Boquois caught his breath, told no tales, and dove again into the dark depths.
Monday, November 24, 2008
skit #8: Galgan-nga and Mother
Encroaching ice invisibly circumscribed her kayak. Her ill husband and son lay shivering at home, perhaps already dead. She fought her fatigue while considering this, the ice slowly mooring her idle paddle.
Greasy guillemots speckled the sky. It would not hail and the birds would not take refuge in their rookery within striking distance. Inland, the reindeer had been appropriated by the CCCP. Even though no officials represented that expanse of barren tundra, the Chachki tribes feared rumors of draconian punishment for stealing from the Party. So Galgan-nga and Mother set from shore to spear a seal, but nothing was found at the sea.
Hunger everywhere. Salty waves lapped onto the kayak deck, trying to lick her warm flesh. The gurgling of Mother's stomach could be heard. She had been fainting from exhaustion all day. Diving guillemots cascaded into the sea, plundering gullet-by-gullet of silvery fish to regurgitate to their children. 'It is unfair to be a woman and not a bird,' thought Galgan-nga as her vessel bobbed atop the gray depths.
The glassy portal returned her gaze at every glance. One face she cast gave way to a ripple, then to a walrus. The nodular eyes, the weeping tusks, the cavernous mouth: She had seen many walruses, but never one so far from shore. They were both aliens here. The two omens, blank-faced, just stared. Remembering her husband and son, she drove the spear into the walrus' mustache, killing it instantly.
The corpulent walrus floated, its lifeless blubber buoyant like clouds in the salt water. Galgan-nga quickly found the walrus ill and unsuitable for food, spotting rotten purple lesions all over its hide. She released the corpse into the sea and the guillemots soon flocked to feast. The harpoon must have hooked into the eye socket, for it would not come loose. Spearless, she picked up her oar to row home.
She sobbed and sobbed, receiving no consolation. Behind her, Mother lay face down in the arctic sea, preserved by the cold and salt. Galgan-nga rowed home with her sweet Mother, not a seal, not a walrus, in tow.
Greasy guillemots speckled the sky. It would not hail and the birds would not take refuge in their rookery within striking distance. Inland, the reindeer had been appropriated by the CCCP. Even though no officials represented that expanse of barren tundra, the Chachki tribes feared rumors of draconian punishment for stealing from the Party. So Galgan-nga and Mother set from shore to spear a seal, but nothing was found at the sea.
Hunger everywhere. Salty waves lapped onto the kayak deck, trying to lick her warm flesh. The gurgling of Mother's stomach could be heard. She had been fainting from exhaustion all day. Diving guillemots cascaded into the sea, plundering gullet-by-gullet of silvery fish to regurgitate to their children. 'It is unfair to be a woman and not a bird,' thought Galgan-nga as her vessel bobbed atop the gray depths.
The glassy portal returned her gaze at every glance. One face she cast gave way to a ripple, then to a walrus. The nodular eyes, the weeping tusks, the cavernous mouth: She had seen many walruses, but never one so far from shore. They were both aliens here. The two omens, blank-faced, just stared. Remembering her husband and son, she drove the spear into the walrus' mustache, killing it instantly.
The corpulent walrus floated, its lifeless blubber buoyant like clouds in the salt water. Galgan-nga quickly found the walrus ill and unsuitable for food, spotting rotten purple lesions all over its hide. She released the corpse into the sea and the guillemots soon flocked to feast. The harpoon must have hooked into the eye socket, for it would not come loose. Spearless, she picked up her oar to row home.
She sobbed and sobbed, receiving no consolation. Behind her, Mother lay face down in the arctic sea, preserved by the cold and salt. Galgan-nga rowed home with her sweet Mother, not a seal, not a walrus, in tow.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
skit #7: Chapman whispered
Moonlight and snowfall tinted Jefferson County blue and white. Chapman lay pale with these colors too. He slept under the firmament year-round, though vagrants and farmers alike concurred it as queer. Through teeth and through a mossy beard, Chapman whispered to himself and to Lord God.
Powder fell for minutes during commune.
"Lord God, I do not understand Your wishes. Why do You wish I prolificate the fruit that felled Man? We cannot be trusted with such knowledge dangling from every bough. In this country live wanton men who would eat the apple rather than ingest its wisdom. Not even apples, but appleseeds. Perhaps I could better extol Your Glory with gentle cotton or fine tobac--"
Powder fell for some minutes more.
"But, Lord God -- why does Bunyan get the brawn of a hundred men and an ox? How shall I transport the seeds? How shall I till the soil? Would not Babe be of more use to me than him, my Lord? Or grant me the fleetest of feet to sow your seeds?"
Powder fell brusquely.
"N-- no, I don't want to be called to enforce seaport tariffs or called to dispense fertilizer. It's just that-- no, not a field surgeon either. You know the suffering of Your children makes me queasy. I--"
Powder fell, an ultimatum.
"Y, yes, my Lord."
Chapman slept, barefoot.
Powder fell for minutes during commune.
"Lord God, I do not understand Your wishes. Why do You wish I prolificate the fruit that felled Man? We cannot be trusted with such knowledge dangling from every bough. In this country live wanton men who would eat the apple rather than ingest its wisdom. Not even apples, but appleseeds. Perhaps I could better extol Your Glory with gentle cotton or fine tobac--"
Powder fell for some minutes more.
"But, Lord God -- why does Bunyan get the brawn of a hundred men and an ox? How shall I transport the seeds? How shall I till the soil? Would not Babe be of more use to me than him, my Lord? Or grant me the fleetest of feet to sow your seeds?"
Powder fell brusquely.
"N-- no, I don't want to be called to enforce seaport tariffs or called to dispense fertilizer. It's just that-- no, not a field surgeon either. You know the suffering of Your children makes me queasy. I--"
Powder fell, an ultimatum.
"Y, yes, my Lord."
Chapman slept, barefoot.
skit #6: her subjects adored her
A beautiful sow with four buttermilk thighs, glutinous and chaste like unkneaded dough. She trotted not. Four Adonic lads ferried her from trough to slop to den by palanquin. She laid supine all day, idleness possible by pampering. Her subjects adored her.
But the Pig-Queen's muscles had atrophied entirely, resulting in a body that was as useless a tool as pristine a temple. She wore her helplessness as disinterest and displeasure. Her four coachboys knew not where she wished to go -- to trough, slop, or den. When she mustered an oink, they rushed her to the trough then slop then den in hopes of appeasing her by process of elimination.
She ate, as pigs do. She lazed, as queens do. How massive and inept she grew. The less she did, the greater her gravity. Five, six, ten, twenty coach boys to support her circuit through trough, slop, den, trough, slop, den.
Then the crashes began. A coach boy would falter or the Pig-Queen would wallow in her pillowed limbo. The palanquin would wobble, fall, and reduce the slower central boys to meat paste. Resourceful and alacritious, coach boys shoveled this fleshy pudding to her Highness, saving the effort of a possible trip to the trough.
The hamlet of Porcinito struggled to produce sufficient young men to keep the sow afloat. The abundance of young men depleted. Soon old men and women and children hefted the beloved Pig-Queen, their feebleness serving only as baptism to jamhood. Then the poet. Then the policeman. Then the pastor. Then the scholar. All but few of Porcinito, homogenous fodder-flavored jam.
The sow lay inert on her grounded palanquin, plump but starving. The sow, unable to inch her tongue to taste her popular marinade, whined incapably. The last citizens of Porcinito abandoned the hamlet and the Pig-Queen and the trough, the slop, the den: the celebrity, the economist, the mayor, the idealist.
But the Pig-Queen's muscles had atrophied entirely, resulting in a body that was as useless a tool as pristine a temple. She wore her helplessness as disinterest and displeasure. Her four coachboys knew not where she wished to go -- to trough, slop, or den. When she mustered an oink, they rushed her to the trough then slop then den in hopes of appeasing her by process of elimination.
She ate, as pigs do. She lazed, as queens do. How massive and inept she grew. The less she did, the greater her gravity. Five, six, ten, twenty coach boys to support her circuit through trough, slop, den, trough, slop, den.
Then the crashes began. A coach boy would falter or the Pig-Queen would wallow in her pillowed limbo. The palanquin would wobble, fall, and reduce the slower central boys to meat paste. Resourceful and alacritious, coach boys shoveled this fleshy pudding to her Highness, saving the effort of a possible trip to the trough.
The hamlet of Porcinito struggled to produce sufficient young men to keep the sow afloat. The abundance of young men depleted. Soon old men and women and children hefted the beloved Pig-Queen, their feebleness serving only as baptism to jamhood. Then the poet. Then the policeman. Then the pastor. Then the scholar. All but few of Porcinito, homogenous fodder-flavored jam.
The sow lay inert on her grounded palanquin, plump but starving. The sow, unable to inch her tongue to taste her popular marinade, whined incapably. The last citizens of Porcinito abandoned the hamlet and the Pig-Queen and the trough, the slop, the den: the celebrity, the economist, the mayor, the idealist.
Friday, November 21, 2008
skit #5: in love with it all
'With what?'
'With anything. With all of them.'
'But, but there all sortsa things you've never seen. There's no way.'
'No, I did it all last night.'
He forfeits his response in pause, but she only reiterates.
'With all of it.'
'No, no, but --'
She rose in retort. Fidgeting in only lit corner of the office, she unlocked the stoic steel filing cabinet. She pulled out paper of all its states of matter: pin-fed, 3-hole, college-ruled, twice-used napkins, excised encylopedia entries, newspapers, candy bar wrappers, cigarette papers, baking parchment, even a few squares that impossibly suggested age-old papyrus. She pulled more out. And then she pulled more out. There was no end.
She continued to dredge up libraries of scribbling. First, the conference table amassed an fine ovine fleece of her receipts. The flurry of pages grew frantic, from frost to impassable snowbanks. He first wondered how so much of her lunacy could fit in that seemingly-benign filing cabinet; Soon, he feared collapse of the table, dead wood crushed by dead leaves.
The paper reflected the glare overhead fluorescence, and the rustling produced a negating white noise. Only a pink carbon copy broke the otherwise monochromic mound. He saw this.
Unwadded, he read: 'I am in love with the old man humming TV theme songs in the back of the bus.'
Unwadded, another read: 'I am in love with this cucumber and its imminent rottenness.'
Another: 'I am in love with this fuzzy bear sticker and its adhesive properties and the gunk it will leave behind when it's gone.
'I am in love with my bones and my marrow and their guerilla coup.'
'I am in love with my man and his boyish sense of belief.'
Most read: 'I am in love with it all.'
She was hoping all these histrionics were proving to him she was not lying. She may have been earnest in her oath: 'I am in love with it all. I am in love with it all.'
He stood stunned wondering 'How did she write all this in one night?' She pulled out more.
'With anything. With all of them.'
'But, but there all sortsa things you've never seen. There's no way.'
'No, I did it all last night.'
He forfeits his response in pause, but she only reiterates.
'With all of it.'
'No, no, but --'
She rose in retort. Fidgeting in only lit corner of the office, she unlocked the stoic steel filing cabinet. She pulled out paper of all its states of matter: pin-fed, 3-hole, college-ruled, twice-used napkins, excised encylopedia entries, newspapers, candy bar wrappers, cigarette papers, baking parchment, even a few squares that impossibly suggested age-old papyrus. She pulled more out. And then she pulled more out. There was no end.
She continued to dredge up libraries of scribbling. First, the conference table amassed an fine ovine fleece of her receipts. The flurry of pages grew frantic, from frost to impassable snowbanks. He first wondered how so much of her lunacy could fit in that seemingly-benign filing cabinet; Soon, he feared collapse of the table, dead wood crushed by dead leaves.
The paper reflected the glare overhead fluorescence, and the rustling produced a negating white noise. Only a pink carbon copy broke the otherwise monochromic mound. He saw this.
Unwadded, he read: 'I am in love with the old man humming TV theme songs in the back of the bus.'
Unwadded, another read: 'I am in love with this cucumber and its imminent rottenness.'
Another: 'I am in love with this fuzzy bear sticker and its adhesive properties and the gunk it will leave behind when it's gone.
'I am in love with my bones and my marrow and their guerilla coup.'
'I am in love with my man and his boyish sense of belief.'
Most read: 'I am in love with it all.'
She was hoping all these histrionics were proving to him she was not lying. She may have been earnest in her oath: 'I am in love with it all. I am in love with it all.'
He stood stunned wondering 'How did she write all this in one night?' She pulled out more.
skit #4: useless and luxurious furniture
A creature poses above the flaking lacquer tag, Mustela erminea. White-nailed pink-fleshed claws remain motionless, like tome-pressed baby's breath. A mouth toothed with miniature gumdrops, pimple-ivory and incapable; A svelte trunk arches like a sculpted eyebrow; Whiteless black eyes, beads that suggest taxidermy before and after it had been stuffed. These features whisper still still still life
Mother poses no threat, pecking with that seed-cracking beak. Fledglings slide down the stoat's throat, tickled by no feathers. Intercepted by an acrobatic lunge, the stoat separates the grieving mother in a ravenous flurry of snaps and shreds. Adult bluejay feathers flutter to the forest floor. Stare-by-stare, the stoat replies to each concerned neighboring nest-hen with whiteless black eyes. The mothers bark confident threats over the din of warbling chicks. The stoat selects meals as it pleases.
Toledo's Predator Procession exhibits the museum's useless and luxurious furniture: Unmade rugs, cloaks, stoles; Undone Ursus arctos, Panthera tigris, Mustela erminea. In the Predator Procession, the guile and mastery of these carnivores receive their due celebration. The placard lists jaw compression PSI, subordinate species eaten, mating habits, breadth of domain, and dropping samples. Humans are nowhere on this list, but we have our own Procession.
Montpelier's Presidential Procession exhibits the world's famous and infamous politicos: Some alive (Jimmy Carter, Hugo Chavez, George Walker Bush); Some dead (Ronald Reagan, Josef Stalin, Ulysses Grant). The stock room contains phalanxes of the marginally famous. Their countenances are only as detailed as their legacies are significant; Many of the wax figures are indistinguishable save for flaking lacquer tags. Such ugly anonymous faces.
Mother poses no threat, pecking with that seed-cracking beak. Fledglings slide down the stoat's throat, tickled by no feathers. Intercepted by an acrobatic lunge, the stoat separates the grieving mother in a ravenous flurry of snaps and shreds. Adult bluejay feathers flutter to the forest floor. Stare-by-stare, the stoat replies to each concerned neighboring nest-hen with whiteless black eyes. The mothers bark confident threats over the din of warbling chicks. The stoat selects meals as it pleases.
Toledo's Predator Procession exhibits the museum's useless and luxurious furniture: Unmade rugs, cloaks, stoles; Undone Ursus arctos, Panthera tigris, Mustela erminea. In the Predator Procession, the guile and mastery of these carnivores receive their due celebration. The placard lists jaw compression PSI, subordinate species eaten, mating habits, breadth of domain, and dropping samples. Humans are nowhere on this list, but we have our own Procession.
Montpelier's Presidential Procession exhibits the world's famous and infamous politicos: Some alive (Jimmy Carter, Hugo Chavez, George Walker Bush); Some dead (Ronald Reagan, Josef Stalin, Ulysses Grant). The stock room contains phalanxes of the marginally famous. Their countenances are only as detailed as their legacies are significant; Many of the wax figures are indistinguishable save for flaking lacquer tags. Such ugly anonymous faces.
skit #3: canned peaches
The Hartuk gypsies always rejected canned peaches. None of the neighboring troupes understood why. 'These, they are sweet and not go to bad. Why they do not let the children eat peaches from can is no reason. The children eat lollies sugars and get cavities and tooth rotten instead. But not peaches is silly. Give them the peaches, Balson. You are fool."
The Hartuks spoke only English, though ethnic Hungarians. Balson Hartok did not avoid canned peaches, he held animosity towards a tin cylinder of preserver fruit -- conviction, spite. Neighbor Caldo, a Hungarian who spoke only Hungarian, watched the Hartok children starve. Caldo thwarted Balson's circumlocutory reasoning in commanding, if mispronounced, words, 'But why Balson? You are so fool."
Balson sat atop the throne of cans Caldo Araguz had procured from beached lorry trailer, its vittles exposed like carrion alongside the interstate. Caldo reasoned without language and Balson listened to no words.
Balson confided, 'Caldo, the peach is too sweet for this can. Hartuks eat free fruit.'
Caldo paused. 'Balson, but I give you fruit free. It is from the dead truck.'
The Hartuks spoke only English, though ethnic Hungarians. Balson Hartok did not avoid canned peaches, he held animosity towards a tin cylinder of preserver fruit -- conviction, spite. Neighbor Caldo, a Hungarian who spoke only Hungarian, watched the Hartok children starve. Caldo thwarted Balson's circumlocutory reasoning in commanding, if mispronounced, words, 'But why Balson? You are so fool."
Balson sat atop the throne of cans Caldo Araguz had procured from beached lorry trailer, its vittles exposed like carrion alongside the interstate. Caldo reasoned without language and Balson listened to no words.
Balson confided, 'Caldo, the peach is too sweet for this can. Hartuks eat free fruit.'
Caldo paused. 'Balson, but I give you fruit free. It is from the dead truck.'
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