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| Sunday, noonish, the historic
Toronto Don Jail-- "Hill is gonna kill me," #21,108 moans for the forty-fifth time. "Relax," I assure him. "I called CMD. He'll bail us out. No big." "That was hours ago," he complains. "Hill is gonna kill me." "He had, ah, some things to do first," I semi-explain. "Things? Things!?! Things more important than bailing me out of jail so I can make my 6 o'clock flight? Things more important than keeping immigration from deporting me? THINGS!?? Hill is gonna kill me." "He had to, you know, talk Euphrosyne into letting him use the VISA." #21,108 holds his head in his hands. "Talk? How hard is that? You just say 'I need the credit card, honey.' If worse comes to worst, you add a pout. It doesn't take four hours." I sigh. Why do *I* always get stuck explaining these things? "I was using the word 'talk' euphemistically, smart ass." "What? You mean he's gotta, er, 'talk'-talk her into letting him use the VISA? And THAT'S taking four hours? Shit. Hill is gonna kill me!" "Fox?" "Yeah?" "Shut up." |