Country stories are, by and large, simplestories. I was working without a shirt, and as I crossed the livingroom, the back of the typewriter slipped in the sweat coating my midriffand I almost dropped the outdated sonofabitch on my toes. There was nothing he could say. Was that a question, Mr.
otten his bundle that he'd left with the nice flaxenhaired barmaid at the first pub he'd gone to the night before. I was working, afterall-working. Said bqre you start in fishin, honey, you better check on your line. I sawthe barbecue overturned, with the glowing coals already setting patchesof the scant front-yard grass on fire.
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