In mid-February this year I stopped by my wife’s work, as I’m known to do on occasion.
We’ll just say she works at a pharmacy/retail shop.
I was sitting in my little Nissan, finishing a cigarette, when a well maintained, 5 or 6 years old luxury car pulled up in the parking spot next to mine. Two men emerged; the one on the passenger side was a grim looking, tall and unkempt figure in ratty clothes, and the other was a white suit-black sunglasses preacher, with closely cropped hair. The license plate was some tedious alphanumeric god tidbit.
As the ratty man opened his door I heard a thud against my car. Sighing, I stepped out to see what the damage was. I didn’t see anything, and the man began apologising with his enormous and slightly crazed stare. My tire was jutting out, so I asked him to open his…
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