Lucky is AnotherCountry

>   Johnny Sid's fingers hadn't bled so bad since he was twelve years old and first picked up his uncle's battered old Martin guitar.

>   He'd set the instrument down three weeks later, no longer an apprentice, nearly a gifted-master, nearly sleeping with it like a woman, though he didn't know about such things at that age.

>   By then, of course, calluses had begun to form on the tips of his long, slinky fingers, and there were deep valleys in the tips that the cold metal strings fell perfectly into.  He had remade himself from the inside out.  The guitar had changed him in ways he could never imagine, and he could not stand for the 1953 Martin to be out of his sight.

>   Hisuncle heard him plucking away one day, shook his head, muttered something about"gettin' his heart broke by that damned thing," then walked away,casting a scowling look at Johnny as a sequence of smooth notes echoed out ofthe house.

>   Hisuncle never asked for the guitar back, and Johnny Sid never offered it-but nowhe knew what his uncle meant:  His heart was more than busted in two, andhis body was raging with a powerful, eat-you-from-the-inside-out disease, andhe couldn't even play a song to make himself feel better.

>   Thedisease was the family disease.  The family curse.  The taste ofwhiskey, of anything fermented; wine, gin, even beer, was more than a whisperor hidden shame.  One drop set off a fire storm like a spark on the sideof a July mountain in California.  Before it was all said and done, therewould be nothing but ashes left in the fire's mean wake; blackened limbs,smoldering dirt, death without the screams.

>   Some of the Sids were reborn, refortified,  found Jesus or Ghandi or Buddha-but most died, even took others with them in twisted metal car crashes, or other alcohol-induced accidents.

>   The hardest to stomach for Johnny was the fire that wiped out a city block, Art Deco buildings, namely a movie theatre, the Madre Rise, that was the historical center to his home town, gone in an instant, and two firemen, too, that battled the fire-dead, flattened by falling, flaming, rafters.

>   Johnny Sid saw one of the fireman's daughters once at the grocery store not long after.  Her eyes were hollow and dry, like all of the fluid her body had ever held had been drained out of her.  He wanted to tell her he was sorry for what his father had done, but his courage had been drained away just like her fluids-the shame was his now, out in the wide open, a field of sin passed from one generation to the next like a forty acre farm.  He'd dropped the Zero candy bar he'd gone to the store to buy, a stale white chocolate nougat,and ran home to his guitar.

>   The song, Judy's Eyes, was his first recording five years later, a number one hit.  Life was never the same.  He could have anything he wanted-andhe did.

>   Most men would have stuck the cold end of a handgun in their mouth, ended the pain,ended the battle, when everything went south.

>   Johnny's uncle did-eventually, years later, fearing a different wasting disease, when watching the skin drip off his bones was obviously too much for him to see inthe mirror day in and day out.  He'd ended it on a cloudy day in a corner lot behind a Catholic church on Wilmont Street.  One second, one quick thrust of a finger, like the strum on a C chord, and an explosion of gun powder and a cold, metal bullet conquered the cancer and all of the shame being a Sid carried with it.

>   None of the Sids were Catholic.  No converts there.  So why he chose the location was a mystery.  Maybe it was just a random choice.  Or like Johnny, maybe his uncle hoped for a bit of forgiveness and redemption in the end.  Maybe there was purgatory for some, a stopping off place before rotting in hell.  A chance to eventually fly up instead of down-if you believed in second chances and angels.

> ***

>   Deathwas no stranger to Johnny Sid, that was a given.  He knew his life wasticking away.  His heartbeat was a metronome without a conscience or anounce of emotion.  He was at the end of his days. Nearly every ounce ofhis energy was used up, wasted, spilled in some way or another that could haveprobably been foretold from the beginning.

>   He'dconsidered taking himself out, like his uncle, but he was a coward, couldn'traise the gun to his lips.  The taste of metal had never appealed tohim.  Maybe he should have coated the six inch barrel with whiskey.

> If death hadbeen a constant companion, then bad luck rode shotgun and bad choices sat inthe back seat, mocking him.

>   Hisfirst manager slipped him a contract and stole his publishing rights androyalties out from under his nose.      What did he know aboutbusiness?  What did he care about suits and ties when somebody was goingto pay him to play the guitar and sing?  What did he care about lawyersand agents and copyrights when he could punch all the radio buttons in hisshiny new red Caddie convertible, and hear his own voice swooning out of thespeakers?

>   Hehad an appetite for the honey glaze of his own voice and the cooing of leggyblondes itching to rub the sheets.

>   Whatdid he care?

>   Hehad more of everything than he ever dreamed possible.

>   Thecrash was quick, hard, and came out of nowhere.  One day the radio wentsilent, just quit playing his songs.  A new invasion. Mop-heads. Screaming guitars plugged into the wall.  His Martin became quaintovernight, and Nashville was too much for him, even then, before they kickedwestern into the ditch, leaving country to stand alone as a twangy reminder ofwhat it once was.

>   JohnnySid had nothing left.  Didn't own a damn thing.  Zero. Zilch. Too eager, too willing, to give himself away, knowing no other way to do whathe did-sing and play guitar.  He wasn't the only one left high anddry.  There was plenty of blame to go around.  Plenty of sad storiesto compare to.

>   Has-been.Was-then.  Outcast.  Drunk.  A wasted talent.

>   He'dbeen called a lot of names, but nobody, at least not until the day the girl withthe stringy dishwater blonde hair lugged her guitar into the hole-in-the-wallshe'd tracked him down to, had ever walked up to him and said, "You're myDaddy.  What are you gonna do about it?"

> ***

>   Shesaid her name was Lucia Doreen Palmer.  Everybody called her Lucky,though.  Lucky Palmer.  She had a tattoo on her ass to prove it,Lucky in a fancy scroll under a palm tree.  Johnny Sid declined when sheoffered to show the tattoo to him.  He wasn't interested in the promise ofparadise.

>   Hecould tell two things right away just by looking at her:

>   Number1-Lucky Palmer was a stripper's name.  He doubted Palmer was her real lastname.  The girl carried herself like she was a magnet to a dancer'spole.  Her clothes fit loose, and what was underneath was probablylooser.  Her mother probably had the same look, though Johnny couldn'tplace her.  He'd played a lot of strip joints in his time, took advantageof strippers when the offer came around-and the offer did come his way for along time.  Even after his quick fall, he still had his looks; a lion'smane of hair, a bad boy twinkle in his deep blue eyes, a swagger full ofpromise that was worth a memorable night or two.

>   Alittle bit of fame and the ability to hold a note went a long way in thosedays.

>   He'dlost interest in skin, in anything but Johnny Red these days. Strippers weretoo young, he was too old.  The need and the plumbing were justgone.  He was ticking off time, waiting to die.  His body told him hewas close.  He missed playing though.  He sure did.

>   Number2-Lucky Palmer was a Sid.  A result of one of his many drunken tanglesthat no doubt had ended badly, if it had ended at all. The union had probablyfaded away as he drove on down the road, just left, on to the next gig, thenext stage, the next dive that would pay him in cold, hard cash and the all thewhiskey he could drink.

>   Damnedif he couldn't remember Lucky Palmer's momma.  He bet it was loads offun.  Memories like that were golden, all he had to hold onto wheneverything else was without an urge.

> Looking atLucky Palmer was like looking in the mirror, a youthful image of himselfstaring back at him coldly; expectant and demanding.  He wondered if shehad the taste for whiskey, what her curse was, then decided he didn't care tofind out.

>   Sometimes you see what you want to see.   Immortality had never beena consideration.  Until now.

>"Honey," he said, "I ain't nothing but a big bag ofdisappointment. You got a look at my face.  I figure that's what you beenlooking for, so you probably ought to get on to where you're going. Life's short."

> It was lateafternoon in the tavern, nobody there but the regulars.  The band startedplaying later, after the sun stumbled down out of the sky, and Johnny had knockedback enough free whiskey to be able to stand the sound of his own voice. Sometimes the band would ask him to sing.  They knew he couldn't playanymore.  Felt sorry for him.  It was worth a two dollar shot ofwhiskey.  Sorrow didn't go down near as easy as a note that hangs in theair like a first date whisper.but it still held some currency.

>   Acloud of blue cigarette smoke hung over the bar, a baseball game on the TV wasbeing played by ghosts, the sound down low, the score even, 0 to 0.  Itcould have been Babe Ruth back from the dead for all Johnny knew.

>   LuckyPalmer put her nose an inch from his, breathed in his breath, exhaled it with ascowl, and said, "Ain't gonna happen, Old Man.  It's me and younow.  There's no place left for me to go."

> Johnny believedher.

>   Shesmelled musky, like the other side of sex, afterwards, after the fun of it hadbeen forgotten-if there had ever been any fun about it in the first place-andthere was nothing left but stains.

>   "Nomoney here," he said.  "Got nothing but bad debt and time tospend, and there isn't much of that left, either."

>   Luckypulled back, squared her shoulders, and smirked.  "Money's not myworry."

>   "Whatis?"

>   Shegrabbed the guitar case, and thrust it toward him.  "I can pluck it,but it won't sing for me.  I got things to say."

>   "Youhave to love it."

>   "Really. Is that what you call it?"

>   "Yeah. You got to love it.  Tell it secrets you never tell anybody else. You know how to do that?" Johnny Sid asked.

>   "Iknow plenty about secrets."

>   "Ibet you do."

>    Heopened the case, saw the guitar, looked back up at Lucky Palmer and shook hishead, remembering.knowing full well, now, who the girl's momma was.

> He should haveknown by her eyes, they were different than his, brown, the color all creationsprings from, the color of dirt and bread, the color of Judy's Eyes.

>   "No,"he whispered, slamming the case closed, refusing to touch the guitar.

>   "Yes,"Lucky Palmer said.  "Now teach me, Daddy.  Teach me just likeyou did her."

> ***

>   Hername really wasn't Judy-It was Doreen, of course.  Doreen Larson. Johnny Sid's father killed her father.  It was an accident.  No onewas supposed to die other than himself in that Madre Rise fire, but they did. Bad luck rode shotgun with more than one Sid.  A suicide gone wrong wasone note worse than just a plain old suicide.

>   TheLarson's got a hero for their trouble, a big city funeral in a small town, athousand firemen from all over the country marching to a silent band, theirsteps in unison, like a metronome.  Johnny heard that heartbeat whereverhe went, especially when he heard a siren.

>   Doreen'sEyes just didn't sound right, so Johnny gave her a new name, a blankslate.  She gave him a daughter for his trouble, an ex-stripper cravingfor the spotlight just like he had.

> At the moment,he figured it was all a bad deal.and he couldn't help but feel an old rage, anold hate, that reached deep into his heart, into his memory, into his boyhoodhome, and grabbed hold of his father, and gushed a lifetime of blame on him.

>   Thevenom of hate was worse than the worst hangover he'd ever had. Just seeingDoreen's guitar made Johnny Sid feel like he'd never be able to pull his headout of the toilet ever again.  There was no way to empty to himself ofthat grief or heal that broken heart, that he knew of.

>   He'dspent a lifetime trying.

> ***

>   LuckyPalmer was persistent, so Johnny Sid made her a deal.  Meet in the bar attwo in the afternoon, buy him a whiskey, and she had him for an hour. Just her, him, and the guitar.  After that they went their own way.     No more than that, no less.

>   Jerrythe barkeep could have given a crap less.he was just glad to sell a drink attwo in the afternoon, and the music was a relief from CNN.

>   Johnnycouldn't bear for her to see the squalor he lived in; a rust-stained bathtub,creaky floors and walls bound by nothing more than years of grime and dirt, akitchen infested with cockroaches, most of whom he was on a first-name basiswith.

>   Andhe didn't want to see what Lucky Palmer turned into after the sun burned itselfout.  He was sure the creatures of darkness more than welcomed her intothe fold.

>   Ifshe was his blood daughter, his child, he wanted no part of the imagination orreality she danced in after the fall of darkness, after night came to tease himwith another rehearsal for dying.he knew what he was, and he was sure, he knewwhat she was.

>   Justan hour a day was more than he thought he could give to her.at first.

> ***

>   "No,"Johnny Sid said.  "Like this."  He slapped his knee softly,consistently.  "Like a heartbeat.  You know?"

>   Ithad been a week.  Johnny could tell Lucky Palmer had been practicing, butnot enough.  The grooves in her fingers were deep.but she hadn't bledyet.  Her fingers weren't so sore that the only thing that would make thembetter was sliding them onto the  cold, metal, D string, and hitting astrum and a beat that was her own.

> It was hertiming, though, that frustrated him the most.  She lacked the instinct,the ear, so distinctly that he caught himself looking at her in the shadows,apprising her profile, just to satisfy himself that she was truly his own fleshand blood.

>   LuckyPalmer looked at Johnny Sid blankly.  "It takes time," he said.

>   "Idon't have time," Lucky answered.  Her attitude spewed insolence,lost patience, like a demanding child in a supermarket asking for a strawberrylollipop instead of talent.

>   Neitherwas cheap.  One came from experience, the other from the ancestors andchemistry.  The recipe might not be in Lucky's veins. That would be ashame.  But she helped passed the days now, she sure did.

>   JohnnySid had something to look forward to, a reason to shave and give himself abath.  The sky was beginning to look bluer on his walks to the tavern, thebird songs louder, more of a symphony than an achy tale of woe.  His backstopped hurting, and he smoked half as many cigarettes.  The cancer hadn'tbeen cured, but it had been smacked upside the head by a human antidote, areaction inside his brain and heart that could not be manufactured and putinside a pill.  He refused to call it by any name, but he knew what itwas, he sure did.  There was no use jinxing it by whispering a word likehope or love out into the world.

>   Afteranother week, he forgot about dying, the need to, or the wanting to.  Allhe could think about was that girl, that sunshine-headed girl, Lucky Palmer,and her sweet, soft smelling skin, clumsy fingers, and dancers legs.

>   Hervoice was velvet, too, red velvet and fancy curtains that belonged in a big,old, Art Deco theatre, each note hanging on the rafters for a second longerthan they should have.  What she lacked in timing, she had in soul, tenfold.

>   Itdidn't take long to figure out she knew what she was talking about on thatfirst day-she had secrets to tell, she had a song to sing.

>   Findingit was the treasure hunt now, pulling it out of her lungs and mixing it withthe metal strings and old wood branded by C.F. Martin himself.

>   JohnnySid knew that song of Lucky's wasn't no fable.  It was a ballad.  Aballad of pain and searching that ended with the discovery of a man who heardmusic just like she did.  He was the only one in the world who could teachher to sing that song, and they both knew it.

>   Beautyhad shined a quick, bright light into his life, a lottery of blood and promise,a passion to give something of himself he didn't know he had to give afterbeing so washed up with himself for so long.  He should have known,though, being a Sid and all, that beauty.and luck.never lasted long when theyshowed up out of the blue.

> ***

>   Theweek turned into a month, and a season changed.  Summer became fall,autumn, the first whisper of seclusion, but Johnny Sid and Lucky Palmer paid nomind to the chill riding in on the wind.  They held on to their days likelife rafts in the ocean.  At two o'clock promptly every day, Jerry thebarkeep turned off the TV, and Lucky Palmer pushed in through the front door. Johnny Sid sat waiting in the corner for his drink, which was mostly water now,the thirst for burning alcohol replaced with the desire for clarity.  He'dlost his taste for whiskey-a feat that surprised him because of itseffortlessness, and his ability to pass up the desire without a single thought.

>   Theynever asked about each other's night, didn't talk about their troubles or achesand pains.  There wasn't time for that, and they both had silently agreednot to let the outside world into their corner.  It was bound to happen,though, no songs get written without a few bruises or cuts.  No goodsongs, anyway.  On that day, Lucky Palmer had both-bruises and cuts, toofresh to scab over, too dark to be covered with make-up.

>   "Whatin the hell happened to you?"

>   "Don'tgo getting all paternal on me."  Lucky opened the guitar case, andwinced in pain like she had a broken rib or two-a match on the inside for theoutside, for the black eye and the gash on her right cheek.

>   JohnnySid stood up.  The table squeaked on the linoleum like a scream, likefingers on a chalk board-only with flat out anger.  "Who did this toyou?"

>   "Sitdown, old man.  It's not your fight."

>   "Whoin the hell says?"

>   "Ido.  You gave up that right a long time ago."

>   "Ididn't know about you."

>   "Youwalked away."

>   "Islipped away.  I'm here now."

>   "Youwouldn't have stayed."

>   "Imight have."

>   Theywere yelling.  The inches between their faces were nil, daylight couldn'thave passed through their noses, though they weren't touching, and if theywould have been standing outside, their breath would have been steam.

>   "Idon't need you to fight my fights," Lucky Palmer said.  "I don'tneed you for anything."

>   JohnnySid sucked in a deep breath, swallowed his anger, his fear, and whispered afterstaggering back down to his seat, "But I need you."

>   LuckyPalmer turned her head like she'd been slapped, her words tangled up in thesmoky air of the tavern, and the path that led her there.  Anger didn'tflash in her eyes.  Recognition did.  They had the end to theirsong-and at that moment, like a perfect duet, like the most in tune symphony inthe world, they both knew it and set to work to grab a hold of what lingeredbetween them.

>   Thehour came and went.  Dusk turned to night.  The band came in to setup.  Jerry turned the TV back on.      And when they werefinally done, a piece of paper with words, chords, and notes scribbled in blueexisted with both their signatures.

>   Thetitle of their song was: Lucky is Another Country.

>   Shestuffed the paper in her back pocket, packed up her guitar, and headed for thedoor.  She opened it, took in the darkness, then turned around and walkedback to Johnny Sid, kissed him on the forehead, said, "Thank you,Daddy," and walked out of the tavern.

>   Johnnydrew in a deep breath again, his eyes welled with tears that had taken alifetime to create.

> If he had knownit was the last time he'd ever see Lucky Palmer, he would have ran out the doorafter her, wrapped her in a hug, and dragged her back home with him.  Buthe didn't know.so all he did was sit there for the rest of the night, theirsong playing over and over again in his head.

> ***

>   Threedays later, two policemen came into the tavern showing a picture around. Jerry the barkeep pointed back to the corner, where Johnny Sid satwaiting.  He had known something was wrong after the first day when Luckydidn't show up.or, he thought, more than likely, Lucky had got what she cameafter and ditched him after they'd put together the song.  Seeing thepolicemen walk into the tavern, grim looks pasted on their stone faces, madehim wish for certain that he had been ditched even though he knew it wasn'ttrue now.  Something was wrong in a bad way, in a Sid way.

>   "Yeah,I know her," Johnny said, after looking at the picture, after a chill ranup his spine.  It was a post-mortem picture.  A morgue picture. Eyes shut.  Pasty skin.  Even in black and white, a horrible deathwas obvious.   "She's my daughter."

>   Thepolicemen looked at each other with a quick, surprised, glance. One of them,the younger one, said, "Can you come down to the station, and answer somequestions for us?"

>   JohnnySid shook his head yes.  "We'd just found each other.  I don'tknow much about her, but I'll help any way I can."  He started tostand, but his legs felt like jelly and no bones.  He fell back into thechair, the picture of Lucky Palmer floating to the floor. Everything went blackas he passed out from the shock.

> ***

>   Therewas plenty of evidence.  Lucky had been stabbed seven times in thechest.  A taxi driver had heard a ruckus in an alley across town, saw ayoung man fleeing with a bloody shirt.

>   Thecops weren't sure whether she had been robbed, or killed by somebody sheknew.  Johnny Sid told them about the cuts and bruises. They put an APBout on her boyfriend.once they knew she had one.from asking questions aroundher apartment complex.  She had a driver's license, a debit card, fourteendollars, and a piece of paper with a song written on it.  The fourteendollars pointed away from a robbery. The name on the driver's license was DianaJones, but that didn't surprise Johnny.  He'd always figured Lucky Palmerwas her stripper's name.

> ***

>   Thefuneral was more suited for a pauper than the daughter of a famous musician,even a one-hit-wonder, but there was no money for anything else.  Apriest, the two policemen, and Johnny Sid braved a cold, hard rain, standing ina Potter's field.  After a few sacraments were said, a sigh taken, a nodgiven, the gray cardboard casket was lowered into the ground.

>   "We'llbe in touch," one of the policemen said, the older one, the one who hadquestioned Johnny Sid as if he were a suspect.  Good cop, bad cop.  Heknew the routine, didn't take offense to it.

>   Johnnykicked a clump of dirt into the grave, and a thud echoed off the casket,upward.  "She had talent, that girl.  It's a shame, a damnshame."

>   Bothcops agreed.  The boyfriend was still on the run.  Last seen wearinga blue jean jacket over a bloody T-shirt.  Gone.  Just gone. LikeLucky Palmer.  Johnny just wanted the killer found and brought tojustice.  He hoped he lived to see it.

>   Thecops hadn't pressed him too much about proving he was Lucky's father, and thatdidn't occur to him until they handed him the key to her apartment, said hecould dispose of her belongings, what there was to dispose of.  She didn'thave much.  It probably would have been a different scene if she was a richgirl, had a stash of money hid away. But that wasn't the case.  Bad luckhad followed Diana Jones to the grave, just like every other Sid Johnny hadever known.

> ***

>   Theapartment was sparse, downtrodden, similar to his.  There wasn't muchthere that interested him.  Just the guitar, and a couple of cassettetapes he found on lying on a clunky old recorder.  Lucky had recordedtheir song, playing the guitar.  He wept when he heard her voice, thewords they had made together.

>   Henever went back to the tavern, couldn't face that corner.  But he was gladfor the time he spent with Lucky.  He still didn't have the urge todrink.  His pain was dim, and other than being saddled with a grief he hadnever felt before in his life, he was in better shape than he had been in along time.  He owed Lucky Palmer a lot.

>   So,he mustered up the courage to do two things.  First, he sent off the tapeto one of his old producers, and hoped they would hear what he heard, that theywould listen to it in the first place.  And second, Johnny knew he had togo home.

> ***

>   Thecops had not been able to find Doreen.  But it didn't take Johnnylong.  He knew her haunts from the old days, knew if he sat in front ofthe spot where the old theatre was, that Doreen would wander by to pay herrespects to her dead hero father sooner or later.  It was his luck that itwas sooner rather than later when she showed up.  The air was gettingcolder by the minute, almost too much for him to take.

>   "Doreen?"Johnny whispered, when he saw her.  He stood up like the old man he was,gaunt and creaky.  His clothes hung loosely off his frame, and it took allthe strength he had to pick up the guitar case.

>   "Johnny? Is that you, Johnny Sid?"

>   Henodded.  "I have some bad news."

>   Doreenwas well-dressed,  A red wool coat kept her warm, and shiny new blackboots adorned her feet.  Her hair was white at the temples, blending toblond, and perfectly coifed.  She stiffened at the announcement, and didnot try to embrace Johnny like an old friend or lover might.  "Whatis the matter?"

>   "It'sLucky.  I mean Diana.  She is dead."

>   Doreenturned her head.  "Excuse me?  Are you drunk?"

>   "Ourdaughter.  She is dead."

>   Doreenstepped backward, an incredulous look hardening on her face. "Ourdaughter?  What are you talking about?"

>   Itwas as if the world around them stopped.  Johnny Sid could hear hisheartbeat, could taste a foul bit of bile rising in the back of histhroat.  He opened the guitar case.  "Is this your guitar? The one I taught you to play?"

>   Doreenpeered from her spot, unwilling to step an inch closer to Johnny Sid. "I sold that old thing in a garage sale last year."

>   Johnny'sknees nearly buckled, but he forced himself to remain standing.  "Younever had a daughter?"

>   Doreenshook her head no.

> ***

>   Therewas nothing to do after that moment but to walk away.  Johnny Sid's wholebody ached.  He had no explanation for what had happened to Lucky Palmer.

>   MaybeLucky Palmer was a fan, and figured the only way to get close to him was tomake up a story like she had.  Maybe Diana Jones was just a figment of hisimagination, a sprite from another world set on tormenting him for all of hisearthly sins.  None of it made any sense. Why would somebody do such a thing?he wondered.  It didn't take long to come to a conclusion that was simpleand sure.  He had something Lucky Palmer wanted, and she got it.  Butshe gave him something, too.  She was a thief who gave hope in exchangefor a song.

>   Hewould have gladly given everything he had to her even if she was just astranger.  There was some irony in that thought, but Johnny Sid was tootired to consider it.

>   So,he walked down to Wilmont Street, to the Catholic Church where his unclecommitted suicide in the parking lot, lugging the guitar case and Lucky'sfourteen dollars  as he went.  They were his only worldly possessionsnow.

>   Hewent inside, sat down on the first pew he came to, and waited for whatever camenext.  It was all he knew to do

> ***

>   Ifthere had been a radio on, and Johnny Sid had been sitting outside when theweather turned warm, he would have heard a song blaring from a set of speakers,that was familiar, as a car passed by the church.  But it wasn't tobe.  Lucky was another country for Johnny Sid-not a song he could hang onto.  It was a foreign country with a metal gate, locked tight as a drum,and a long line of folks just like him, were waiting at the border to get in.

>

> THE END

>______________________________________

> Larry D. Sweazy

> WordWisePublishing Services, LLC

> www.larrydsweazy.com

> 317-773-9809

> larrysweazy@prodigy.net