By Harold Acton
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Bullshit, he thought dully. Like the song goes, the only thing new is the shoes. I haven't moved an inch in four years. He grabbed a suit at random and threw it on the rumpled bed. In the bathroom, he turned the shower on full and filled the sink with cold water. Steam boiled over the sliding shower door as he dipped his face in the sink and came up gasping and wide eyed. The warm metal of his golden luck charm swung against his chest and tapped wetly back and forth. Beck straightened up and looked into the clouded mirror.
He let the sheet drop. ” Frank ducked his head, his jaw clenching. “Fine. ” Beck said it without sarcasm. ” Frank glared at him, clearly seeing monotony where Beck saw only fundamental details. Frank abruptly pitched his cigar into the river and strode off the boat. Beck sighed and reached for the pack of cigarettes stowed away in his coat, his fingertips counting the ribs of filters through the thin packet. Two left. He wondered if that was enough to last him until they took the body away. That was how long he’d be stuck on the boat, now that Frank had stormed off.
A tall man clothed in a black habit and white collar paced the shoreline, his gold hair a yellow flame against the dark trees. ” Beck shouted. He turned to the stranger and his breath caught in his throat. 24 Kirby Crow He knew the man. The name eluded him but he was sure he recognized that face, that skin bronzed by the sun and lined by the wind into a brutal mask of indifference. The eyes were washed-out blue, mouth full but cold. The nameless man regarded Beck’s distress with supreme apathy before slowly turning away, ignoring him.
An Indian Ass by Harold Acton