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Oridi of two minds.

They take and they give.

Lament the memories lost in the darkening river vale.


Runyon left the corpse of the cow, interred as it was in flies. The surly coyotes and turkey buzzards would finish the matter, gracing the gulch with one more bone-white skeleton. He needed to get back to Seven by nightfall.


Ralphy was really getting worked up. The damned liberals were taking over the air waves. He had to put a stop to this moron Wickerman, the pansy.

Fumbling with his cell phone, he dialed the number to the AM station in Butte. He was thinking he'd need a plan to get through to the Ronny boy, so he made up a nice pinko question to tell the operator. Damn, it was busy. Punching redial. Idly fingering the trigger guard on his Smith & Wesson. Sincerely wishing he could jam it up that pinko preppy's thin ass. Ringing, good...

"Ron Wickerman speaking, you're on the air!"


Movement. Scuttling.

To not remember the last time your feet were warm.

And then, later on, to not remember that cold wanted warmth. It was just cold. Cold food, fingers, feet. It ceased to be a condition that remembered a solution. The nerves did not remember.