guest story - Beggar My Neighbour by [Whiffytidings]

London, 1820

Every night the huge cast iron doors to the Savings Bank clanged shut at seven o’clock and the same stout gentleman with the bushy yet meticulously clipped moustache would carefully lock them, always mindful of potential attackers. For this reason it was not uncommon for him to be accompanied by an armed guard, but tonight his companion seemed altogether unseasoned.

‘Keep an eye out for anyone untoward will you Carberry, there’s a good man.’ he grunted, searching for the lock with a heavy key.

Young Carberry, having served his first day as a clerk, searched the street almost theatrically until his eyes rested upon a wretched beggar beckoning to him from the side alley.

‘Mr Pitt,’ he whispered. ‘There is one man, although I fancy him more disconsolate than dangerous.’

Pitt, still wrestling with the lock, as he did every night, glanced over and scowled.

‘That lamentable fellow again? Curse him. I have lost count of the number of times I have found him sprawled across that alley drooling utter incomprehension. The man’s a clear lunatic, yet every time I alert Bow Street or those at the asylum to his presence he evades them. Nothing wrong with his brain in that respect, but clearly a cuckoo nonetheless!’

The door secure, Pitt and Carberry climbed into the waiting carriage. Carberry stole a final glance at the beggar who was now waving a filthy scrap of paper in their direction while making a series of desperate, unintelligible sounds. As the coachman geed the horses onward, the beggar slumped crestfallen against the alley wall and began to weep.

He wept silently until nightfall when a sudden tap on his shoulder aroused him from his sorrow. Looking up he met eyes with one of two women. They appeared well yet clumsily dressed with their stockings showing and earthy stains upon their dresses. He wondered if they had had fallen victim to an accident of their own.

‘Allo there ducky, you are awake then. You lookin’ to dip your ‘Ampton wick tonight?

You lookin’ to get your greens? Look at ‘er, she’s ‘ad a green gown already this evening!’ she laughed. ‘Ha! Course not, you don’t look as if you ‘ave enough money to get by, let alone pay for a good ‘our of our company.’

The beggar winced; angered that he had spared his concern on common street molls. He turned his head and looked angrily down the alleyway, wishing them away.

‘Cat got your tongue ‘as it?’ she snapped. ‘Cor, tell you what Cynthia, I don’t know ’bout ‘is tongue, but look at ‘is hands. Some rat’s definitely been at them fingers.’

The smaller and younger of the two prostitutes leaned forward and let out a theatrical shriek.

‘Neither ‘e ‘as Betty, there’s just stumps where some of those fingers ought to be.’ she cried. ‘Ooh, ‘e makes me feel sick ‘e does!’

The beggar turned his head towards the baying pair, casting them an icy glare. His eyes burned and, quickly, he opened his mouth to revealing a thin, grisly, serpentine flap, the remainder of what had once been his tongue. The two women screamed and turned and fled like rats from a snake, hastily exiting the alley. Alone once more, the beggar bowed his head and closed his eyes.

He recalled vividly the events of six months ago: his emergence from the common law court, the words ‘we find the case in favour of Mr Peacock’ ringing deliciously in his ears; the second he paused to triumphantly sniff the air; the three thick-set opportunist yobs who grabbed him and the wicked, pernicious gleam of the amputation knife they briefly paraded before his terror-struck face. Roughly, they bundled him into an alleyway, not dissimilar to the one by the bank, stripping him of his finer possessions as they beat him hard with foot-long wooden cudgels. Finally, his leather drawstring wallet was emptied of the few shillings it contained.

‘Is this it?’ grimaced the shortest of the three men. He was scrawny with sooty grey hair and torn breeches and had clearly adopted the role of leader some time ago. ‘We bag ourselves a rich geezer from that courthouse and this is all ‘e as on ‘im? You two morons, told you ‘e didn’t look posh enough.’ He looked down at his victim, ‘you’re not rich at all aintcha? What are you doing ‘anging around a place like this? Mumford, the blade please.’

Mumford, the tallest and ugliest of the three men handed the amputation knife to his leader and formed his four teeth and black gums into an aberrant grin. The short man grabbed the blade and a handful of Peacock’s hair and Mumford held down his arms and legs while the third man prised his mouth open.

‘I’m sorry we ‘as to do this over such a small amount, but this is what we do. Keeps us safe. We’re ‘onourable gents see? We don’t go about killing no-one, but still we can’t have you waggling your tongue about us. So, out it comes.’

Peacock howled and began rolling his tongue back as far into his mouth as he could. He snapped at the fingers of the man holding his mouth open, receiving a punch to the face in retaliation for every successful bite. After a particularly heavy temple blow, the small man seized his chance. He reached into Peacock’s mouth, pulled his tongue and sliced it off.

The beggar flicked his eyes open. Try as he might, he could not block this memory. The feeling of cold, unforgiving steel followed by excruciating pain. His futile attempts to scream. The small man laughing, taunting him with catcalls of ‘hold your tongue’ while the other two men stuffed his own handkerchiefs into his mouth in an attempt to stem the crimson cascade from his mouth. Then came the charitable unconsciousness which presently overtook him: he remembered nothing of the further dismemberment of his fingers or being dragged to the gates of the nearby infirmary where his attackers abandoned him.

He began to unfold the scrap of grimy paper, ritualistically crossing his hands to gain purchase with the few fingers that remained. Again he read its now quite faded contents:

A promise to pay on demand to the order of Richard Peacock the sum of ten thousand pounds.

The judge’s blessing. His birthright. A hard-fought inheritance wrested from the grip of an insidious uncle. An uncle he dared not now go to. For his help he did not need, not if he could simply convert this cheque to hard, spendable currency. But how? Those with the power to do so considered him nothing but a vagrant or a cuckoo or an unwanted nuisance perpetually on their doorstep? He thought of his Brighton home he had yet to get back to and the forty five mile walk that would most probably kill him. No, it remained easier to scavenge on the bountiful streets of London and find rest at night in her compassionate alleyways – at least until he could find a way to finally gain access to a bank.

Again he imagined what he would do first once the cheque was cashed. No trader would turn him away if he offered them a large sum of money. Money talks, even when you cannot. A good wash, a good night’s sleep, brand new clothes and a feed. Then he’d charter a fast carriage to his seaside home.

‘There ‘e is!’ a voice sounded. The beggar looked up in alarm. The prostitutes had returned with a stocky, red-haired man wearing a brown bowler. ‘The vicious blighter’s an animal. Oh, if ever I have to see that little flickering snake’s tongue again. Go on ‘Arry, give him what for!’

The red-haired man delivered a series of full, vindictive blows to the beggar’s head and body. His thoughts quickly turned from his rehabilitation to nothingness as, again, he drifted into unconsciousness.

The next morning Carberry stood outside the huge cast-iron doors to the Savings Bank. He thought himself a trifle early, but what did ten minutes matter in comparison to the good impression it created? Bothered by a high-pitched wheezing emanating from the alleyway beside him, he investigated its source. There he discovered the beggar from the evening before. His face was a battlefield of purple bruises, his eyes encrusted in blood. He did not move at all, save for a faint movement in his chest as he attempted to keep breathing. In his gnarled hands he firmly clasped the same filthy, blood-spattered piece of paper. The beggar recognised Carberry as a bank employee and, with difficulty, raised an arm to motion him over. Moving gingerly towards him, he flinched as the beggar held out the piece of paper but took it and read it. As Carberry’s eyes widened, the beggar’s closed and, as the clerk’s mouth opened in amazement, so the beggar’s formed a final, peaceful smile.

Review - The Drive by Tyler Keevil

A Fear and Loathing style road trip down Highway 99 in a rented Dodge Neon. Our single protagonist turns on the ignition and off we go on our adventures. Unlike Hunter S Thompson's much more famous book, this is realistically written and a lot better for it. The Drive is simple, good old fashioned story telling with a great plot; and there’s no going off on tangents. The drugs are still there, as is the booze … and the women, the biker gangs, the danger, the diners, the desert, the heat, the desperation, the overcoming of it all and a satisfying ending … and so are you, with the character all the way. Once finished you’ll wish you could go back to the beginning and experience it all over again; which of course you can.

To give you the official blurb:

A single call from his Czech girlfriend catapults Trevor into a serious crisis. Desperate to get his mojo back, he blazes down Highway 99 in a rented Dodge Neon.

But soon his journey to California is fraught with peril, and all he has for protection are a semi-automatic pistol, his trusty plastic visor and a flea-ridden cat. As the drugs and the heartbreak kick in, the question is no longer whether Trevor will get over his girlfriend's infidelity, but whether he’ll get out alive.

A fast-paced and hilarious contemporary odyssey, The Drive has all the adventure and surrealism of Hunter S Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas – but overlaid with heartfelt yearning and hope.

This book is published by Myriad Editions, a small independent publisher from Brighton. It is Tyler Keevil's second novel.

Review - The Fall of Charlie Dixon by David Couldrey

This may be my last entry for a while; possibly ever. Before my leave of absence I’ve got to mention this little book I found called The Fall of Charlie Dixon. It’s a self-published novel but don’t let that put you off. The writer is young but extremely talented. Try the “look inside” on Amazon to give you a taste.

We follow Charlie Dixon (this name only appearing on the cover) right from when he enters the world, through childhood, boarding school and finally the teenage years where he becomes led astray by various “hoody” mates. It’s set in the noughties, with the backdrop of 9/11, the war in Iraq and the London underground bombings tragically mirroring the growing frustration and violence of the youth culture Charlie finds himself entwined with.

I won’t give too much away about the ending, but let’s just say that it’s a fantastically written coming of age tale with a lot of bad decisions and plenty of black humour.

It’s available from the usual places that you’ll find such self-published novels. i.e. the internet.

Okay, signing off, and good luck to David Couldrey in his further writing career. A name to watch out for.

Review - Evie and Guy by Dan Holloway

This is a book with no words, just numbers. Really, I’m not kidding you. It’s avant-garde you see. A piece of art. Only numbers. And it’s over a hundred pages long.

How is this possible?

How can a story be told with just numbers?

Well, I won’t give too much away, but Dan Holloway has achieved the impossible. Because after reading Evie and Guy, I really did have a story in my head.

Parts I skim read; other parts I studied for longer. I’ll admit: the fact that I read it like this was cheating, and lazy. But if it put a story in my head through my undertaking of such an act, then think what it could have done if I’d read it properly, in detail, one chapter at a time.

When I do eventually go back for a re-read, then that’s what I’ll do. A chapter a day, studying every number carefully. Because there is a story in all of them.

To read this book for long periods of time, however, would give you a headache – you are only looking at numbers and interpreting the meanings behind them – despite it being a simple code, and easy enough to understand.

My other criticism is that like many pieces of art, I’d enjoy it more it was fully explained to me afterwards. I found that after reading and pondering over the story somewhat, I began to think of different ways to decipher what I’d read, and the ending especially is, in my opinion, open to interpretation. But the fact that it got me thinking so much is a remarkable achievement.

In summary, there is a lot of story and a lot of depth to this piece. And it’s a very clever idea. But it’s a novella that makes you do the work as you’re filling in the blank spaces, which isn’t exactly relaxing, enjoyable reading.

Not a book for curling up next to a roaring fire, that will sweep you away on a thrilling journey … but worth a look.

As with all of my reviews (and as you can most likely guess) this is an independent release, published by 79 Rat Press. It’s available in kindle and paperback.

Review - How Do You Spell Love? by Zanna Mackenzie

I pick up the odd chick-lit book now and then. It’s nice to have a break from all that heavy and often depressing literary stuff – with a book in this genre you know what you’re getting. Girl meets boy, girl doesn’t like boy because boy is bad, actually he’s not bad after all, girl is falling for boy, girl pursues boy and girl gets boy. Books by Jenny Colgan and Sophie Kinsella are particular favourites. The strength of these authors is their light humour, and unlike some other chick-lit books, they don’t try to be knowledgeable about love and heavy on the morals.

How Do You Spell Love? by Zanna Mackenzie, however, has but a light sprinkling of humour, so, you may ask, why did this book appeal to me? Well, firstly I’d draw attention to the fact that the novel has a real cosiness about it. The set-up is simple, the people likeable and we find ourselves returning to the same scenes many times – Summer’s flat, Kat’s house, the charity shop, the allotments and the building site. The magic stuff adds an extra flavour too – it’s really quite interesting, learning about the mystical properties of crystals, lunar calendar traditions, etc, and it’s written with a lot of knowledge and detail. But the main reason that it’s a cut above most chick-lit books (at least for me) is that rather than only being about romance, there’s also a very real sense of the friendship between the two main characters as they help each other through their problems. The conversations they have are in fact so realistic, it’s like you’re in the next room listening in.

I have to admit now that I am slightly biased because I was involved in editing this work. But I wouldn’t have gotten involved in such a big project if I hadn’t been behind it all the way and it’s now a joy to see it in print.

As with the other books I sometimes review, this is released on an independent publisher, so the distribution won’t be great. But I really hope it does well because, as far as chick-lit goes, it’s one of the good ones.

Story 23 - So Now I'm Forgotten (In My Own Imagination)

I was in a bar last year with my friend Sam Michaels when he described to me this story he was writing about being dead, dying and turning into a ghost. His idea was that you, or a least his characters, stayed where they were at their place of death; eventually having a choice of going away with the grim reaper if they wanted; but his point was that many of them opted for sticking around, watching the world go by while no one living could see them.

“So in that case it’d be worse to die alone,” I remember saying.

Then we were talking about World War One, all those people hanging out in a field in France, although his opinion was that it’d be better to die with our loved ones in the same place. I think actually part of his book involved people in a old farm house dying of old age in their beds over the generations; almost the whole family tree living together except this boy who’d been knocked down by a car on his way home from school. He’d been just around the corner from the house with all his dead relatives, totally missing out on all the fun with nothing but a load of rabbits for company until eventually this other kid who’s like a pretty girl gets knocked down by a car as well and they live, or die happily ever after.

Honestly I don’t remember too many details of the main story though ’cause this was only a side plot. And not long after this Sam was himself involved in a car accident, ending up with him being in a coma, not having a chance to finish the thing. (So far he still hasn’t woken up; but he’s not dead or anything and I’m sure he’ll be around to talk about it all one day.)

So anyway, last night as I was in the moment of almost falling asleep I started thinking about Sam all of a sudden, the story he’d been working on and just for fun began imagining my own adaptation. A possible scenario for my life, or death if it was true about the whole staying in one place thing.

In my version I was knocked down by a bus just outside the language school where I work. I immediately became a ghost observing all the fuss being made over getting rid of my body, the ambulance, loads of people staring, not staring; not wanting to see or be reminded how we’re all so damn fragile and of their own mortality.

Finally once it was over I was left standing in the middle of a busy surroundings outside the school, watching students on their cigarette breaks and then on their way home with it soon becoming dark. The number of people around dwindling into the odd drunk here and there; followed by the rubbish collectors in the morning, the whole day starting again.

Strangely there didn’t seem to be any other ghosts around as far as I could see, and also weirdly… well the next thing that happened was I started to get this really strong, almost absurd feeling of how the flowers that would’ve been put down the next day were really making me feel awkward. How they were a bit of an insult actually. I guess ’cause they were drawing attention to the fact that I’d been enough of a dick-head to allow myself to be knocked over by a bus I suppose. And people were looking, making comments on how a teacher had been killed in that spot.

Pretty soon though I had to start thinking of how I was gonna get used to being in such a situation, deciding that having a routine was a good way to stay sane. And being killed outside my old school didn’t seem so bad ’cause even though it was weird and a bit depressing how life goes on, like doesn’t revolve around me, it was kinda good too ’cause there was plenty to see; stuff going on; or a least I was picturing it to be this way.

I mean I could only catch snippets of conversations, small talk and the odd heated discussion. And as the dream took over there were couples who’d pass me by every day and generally familiar people on their way to and from work that I was getting to know.

Until one day what ended up happening was I saw my wife with this other bloke, far away, barely visible although I knew it was her. And ’cause I couldn’t tell what the other guy looked like, funnily enough I became more interested in seeing who he was than being bothered with the fact that my wife had moved on from me.

Following this I began to get a really strong urge to move from where I was, the frustration of being stuck in the same place becoming so intense that finally I woke up feeling the worst I’ve felt in a hell of a long time. I was even a little bit sick in the bathroom afterwards.

I felt so awful that just to recover I created an ending to the story of this angel coming down and giving me the choice of staying on Earth or being taken away; to heaven or wherever.

After smoking a cigarette and washing my face though I’ve gotta admit that I couldn’t decide for sure. I mean once you went with the angel that was it; there was no coming back or anything. And I remember being unexpectedly confused as to what to do ’cause staying on Earth a little longer did have some advantages; but there again I didn’t wanna have that feeling of being stuck again.

So that’s about it. No idea what the significance of all this was, save for the fact that I’ve thought a lot over the months about what it must be like for old Sam to be in a coma. Whether he’s finished the book inside his head yet, if he entertains himself by making up imaginary scenarios like I was doing last night.

I also wonder of course whether he’s really able to hear people when they talk to him. I mean his wife Maggie is convinced of it. But then again she would be ’cause she spends enough time down there telling him all and everything that’s going on with herself, the kids, her job; whatever she can think of to fill the silence.

She often reminds me not to worry ’cause she’s never mentioned us as being anything more than good friends still – funnily enough I feel at ease when she says this; which I suppose means that in my mind he actually does have the ability to understand her conversations after all.

guest story - Too Damn Late by Jonathan Last

Sure is hot in here.  This closet ain’t so big an my ass is sore as hell sittin on this box after spendin all night on the damn floor.  But I guess I ain’t gon care much bout that soon.

I ain’t no good at speakin none, but I can’t write for shit neither, so here I go.  Mosta y’all ain’t gon really get what all this I’m gon say here, but I’m gon say it anyways – so y’all can make some kinda sense outta all this, I guess.

        Ain’t got too long, neither.  I done enough ah those gigs to know that no soul wants to hang around for long: not the kin, not the hacks, not ol Father Callaghan, an not the poor fellah in the chair, that’s for damn sure.  An when it’s done, it ain’t gon be long til they – Earl an Brandt, I guess; hi, you guys  – til they find me an this tape, neither.  That’s good.  Cause time in here, y’know, it’s all just too damn long waitin.  Waitin an waitin an then you ain’t got no more time.  Then it’s over.

        It ain’t so different in yonder free world.  I was waitin my whole life for something to happen, somethin that felt right; an when it did, in here ah all places, there ain’t no more time left.  Figures, huh?

        It shoulda happened – an everyone thought it had happened – when I married Charlene.  I was workin down in Tampa at the time, at Glades Correctional, an I tell you wha, that there weddin was a big ol shindig, a real warts an all.  It had to be, what wit Charlene’s pa bein the goddam Propane King hisself.  My pappy-in-law paid for the whole damn thang, you betcha he did, yup.  Paid for Charlene’s big ol white dress that went all the way down out behind her like an icy creek as she walked up the church, that big ol buildin right in the middl ah Oldsmar, an this bein Charlene everyone in town was there, standin yonder wit them gold swans an bright flowers an the huge fountain wit the two dolphins right in the damn middle. 

        I remember standin there in my monkey suit watchin her walkin towards me an thinkin, “This ain’t right.”

        She had everythin she wanted, the whole package, includin me.  Cept, it weren’t the real me, cause she din know – heck, she still don know, ten years down the line – who I was.  I mean, who I am.  Cept, maybe she does know, but it’s too late.  Heck, it’s always been too late: I knew it growin up in Houston an I knew it in that church an I sure as hell know it now.

        I know cause ah him.  Derek Antwon Stone, inmate #274381.

        It ain’t gon be long now.  Workin here ten years, you get to notice certain stuff.  Little stuff like how, don matter where y’are in this here facility, you know when they’re about to pull the switch.  You see it: them lights, they sorta shake an dim; flicker, like.  It’s kinda like a warnin, two bits ah flickerin that tells you the ol girl is fair warmin up.  An then it’s only a coupla seconds before the lights go an fade all the way, an jus as soon come back again, like nothin’s happened.  But that’s when thangs really have happened.  An it don matter where y’are are in this here facility, you get the 411: they kill people here.  They jus gon done it.

        An they’re bout to do it now.

        After me an Charlene was wed I took this here job at Huntsville Penn.  Charlene was bent on movin back to Texas – never mind how I left Houston when I was eighteen, how my pappy an ma uncle Lou fair ran me outta town after they caught me round the backa Riley’s bar that time wit Bill, the Wayness’s son; not that Charlene knew that was why, y’understand.  Here in Walker County, we could move into a big ol house, bought by Mr. Propane, my new best friend.  Goddam swimmin pool wit big ol dolphin statues each end – sweet mercy that woman loved her dolphins.  An acourse we could be right near the King, an not jus Charlene’s folks but the rest ah her kin, her goddam sisters an her toothless granpappy an all.  An soon she was fixin to have a baby.

        I started to work longer an longer.  Overtime, double shifts.

You can always get O.T. on death row.  Folks ain’t hardly linin up round the block for it – this is the real stuff, the real McCoy.  “Y’all in the slaughterhouse now,” – you told me that, Earl.  Can’t say I had much love for it neither, but it was a damn sight better than that other prison in my life.  Yup, I soon got to fair likin ol cell block G; came to be like my second home.  Or, I guess, my real home.

        Look, I ain’t gon say Derek ain’t guilty ah what he done.  He is.  That family done got themselves in the way ah his rock, an he got them outta the way.  It ain’t right, I know that, but right an wrong ain’t much use when you’ve got jus one thang in your life you want.  If that’s all you gotta hope for, all you gotta live for, then ain’t nothin gon get in the way. 

I never much understood all that stuff, junkies an all.  Until what happened wit Derek an me.

        One hour a day.  It ain’t much.  But that’s what we had, an it sure adds up.  Me on one side ah that fence, him on the other.  For a long-ass time, we din talk.  He just walked round that cage, gettin his exercise; an me, I watched, like I’m sposed to. He walked, an I just fair followed him wit my eyes. Then one day, he looked square at me. “What the fuck you lookin at, cracker?” That’s what he said.  “What are you lookin at, nigger?” I said back.  Then he smiled.  I smiled back – it was funny; I don know why.

        After that, we started to talk when he walked.  He told me about how he knew they were gon put him in the chair, that his appeal weren’t worth shit, an so he gotta tellin me all the thangs he hadn’t told no soul before.  Bout how he got started wit the drugs not long outta short pants, bout how he had no love growin up, no ma an pa, how he felt alone wit no soul to turn to.  I know Brandt or Allen or one ah the other hacks would just be all, “Quit your noise, nigger,” but I just stood there an, yup, I fair started listenin.  I was like some sorta damn counsellor for him.  It felt pretty good; someone really talkin to me.  After a while, I was kinda fixin to talk back.  I knew it weren’t right, but then it din feel right him tellin me every little thang an me tellin him squat, neither.  So, I began talkin back about my own life, an how alone I’d always felt, too, even though I was outside in yonder respectable society an all.  We both ah us was trapped, an neither had a friend in the world.  Then, over them little hours an Christ knows how many weeks an months, it came to be that both ah us did have a friend, a soul we could talk to.  I liked that; I know Derek liked it, too.  It got to be that there was only one hour a day that I liked, one hour a day I looked forward to, when I felt like me.  One hour I lived for.

        Last night, I din clock out.  I told Earl – I told you, Earl – that I was sick an was gon go get some asprin from the med centre on my way out, after I’d put #274381 back in his cell.  All the hacks do it – if you’re near the med block come quittin time you jus go out through that door, an no one says squat cause from there you’d have to go all the way round to reach the sally port, an no one don never do that.

        We jus talked.  I mean, we din jus talk.  We both fair opened up an it was the first time, for sure for me, another soul had got in.  I told him, this skinny nigger kid wit cornrow hair, I told him that, that I… loved him.  An for the first time I knew what that meant.  Jus when it was too late.  Figures, right?  “Don leave me,” he said, holdin tight my arms all wrapped round his skinny chest on that hard, rough floor.  “I won’t, I promise,” I said back.

        My momma din raise no liar.

        The lights.  Goddam, that’s the first flicker.  There she blows, the ol warhorse warmin up, ready for battle.  You an Brandt keepin watch, Earl; the kin standin behind the glass (but not today, not for my Derek); Father Callaghan holdin his dusty ol Bible.  An me in here, sittin on this stiff-ass box, watchin the lights, holdin this here recordin device.

        You don get no jammin wit these Glocks they issued us instead ah the ol forty-fives.  Fifty thousand rounds, so they say.  I only need one.

        Second flicker, jus there.  I’m holdin the muzzle under my chin.  No hammer needin pullin back, no safety catch.  Just squeeze.

        I know where that chamber is.  Few blocks beyond this wall right in front ah me – across the yard, through the canteen, into cell block G, through the two sets ah doors, down that long walk, through another two sets ah doors. I can see it as sure as if I’m yonder right now.

        We gon be together again, Derek.  I ain’t leavin you.

        Jus…

        There.  Them lights gon out.

        An so do mine.