Jimmy Romanowski uttered a sigh of disgust at the once-prized Mustang. He bought the ailing jalopy wicked cheap, considering metallic rheumatism ran amok among its mechanical parts. Apparently, its previous owner, a man in debt to his uncle, Devin Flynn, and in serious trouble, eschew maintenance. To mitigate the overheating, debilitated rubber arteries, and rusting exterior, he applied an effort unmatched since he helped paint the Our Lady of Sorrows church, which hadn’t been such a filthy job. But after hours of draining, pouring, twisting and screwing, he glanced at the ball joints and yelled, “Fuck!” He slid out from under the car, rose gingerly, and yanked off the tarred t-shirt as the fabric ripped at the seams. After wiping his face, he tossed it outside the alley where a stray cat hazarded a sniff before scooting away. The demanding Saturday bloomed achy and tired, altogether shitty, but well worth battling the
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Fortunately, uncle Devin caught a heads-up from a prison guard and arrived in Jimmy’s stairwell seconds before a chronic disability supplanted a persistent itch. He lay to waste three knife-wielding amateurs unaccustomed to dealing with a real Irish gangster brandishing brass knuckles and a loaded gun. So much for salutations! Shortly thereafter, Devin had his own greeting delivered to the Old Colony Correctional Facility.
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Hazel-eyes zoomed in to his gluteus and maximus and said, “Hey… need a hand?” She relished seeing him lathered up and dripping wet, but not necessarily on a backwater street in Andrew Square.
He rinsed his eyes and barked, “What’re you doing here?” “Whatever the hell I want. Obviously, you’ve been expecting me.” Her gleaming white teeth performed a clicking sound from chewing neon pink gum. You might get lucky, my
Fortunately, uncle Devin caught a heads-up from a prison guard and arrived in Jimmy’s stairwell seconds before a chronic disability supplanted a persistent itch. He lay to waste three knife-wielding amateurs unaccustomed to dealing with a real Irish gangster brandishing brass knuckles and a loaded gun. So much for salutations! Shortly thereafter, Devin had his own greeting delivered to the Old Colony Correctional Facility.
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Hazel-eyes zoomed in to his gluteus and maximus and said, “Hey… need a hand?” She relished seeing him lathered up and dripping wet, but not necessarily on a backwater street in Andrew Square.
He rinsed his eyes and barked, “What’re you doing here?” “Whatever the hell I want. Obviously, you’ve been expecting me.” Her gleaming white teeth performed a clicking sound from chewing neon pink gum. You might get lucky, my