Los Ciboria Bros. sat under a great yawning oak counting their coppers: 25 silver, 25 nickel and 2 gold. Not having enough to purchase a funnel of cotton candy, 27½ gold ducats, they decided on candy corn, which they severed into three equal portions, each brother receiving a handful of warm sticky doces milho. Having arrived early for the Feast of the Redeemer, their pushcart gently sloping across the tacky blacktop, they bid their time watching crows swooping the treetops, green and black flashes smarting their eyes, the sun burrowing into their hatless heads.
Next to the cabman’s tack sat a woman in a feathered hat counting the cracks in the sideways. When she got to nonce she stopped, rearranged the feathers in her hat and fell into a tizzy, her hands madly swatting flies from her face. ‘get off me you winged bastards… my face is not a crème pie!’ The Fusiliers stood four abreast awaiting the arrival of His Honor the Crake. The eldest and most respected Fusilier, Andante, regaled his fellow brothers with a story he’d heard from a Schleswig-Holstein Fusilier when he was stationed in Lübeck as a member of the Hanseatic League,
“In the course of the altercation, among other things the barber said, "Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a death, and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here is my ass in the stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if it does not fit him like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is more, the same day I was robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin, never yet handselled, that would fetch a crown any day."”[1]
‘damn liar!’ yelled a Fusilier with barbed skin and a pencil-thin moustache. ‘...that aren’t no damn Schleswig-Holstein story… its by that, what’s his name… wetback writer’.
[1] Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
Next to the cabman’s tack sat a woman in a feathered hat counting the cracks in the sideways. When she got to nonce she stopped, rearranged the feathers in her hat and fell into a tizzy, her hands madly swatting flies from her face. ‘get off me you winged bastards… my face is not a crème pie!’ The Fusiliers stood four abreast awaiting the arrival of His Honor the Crake. The eldest and most respected Fusilier, Andante, regaled his fellow brothers with a story he’d heard from a Schleswig-Holstein Fusilier when he was stationed in Lübeck as a member of the Hanseatic League,
“In the course of the altercation, among other things the barber said, "Gentlemen, this pack-saddle is mine as surely as I owe God a death, and I know it as well as if I had given birth to it, and here is my ass in the stable who will not let me lie; only try it, and if it does not fit him like a glove, call me a rascal; and what is more, the same day I was robbed of this, they robbed me likewise of a new brass basin, never yet handselled, that would fetch a crown any day."”[1]
‘damn liar!’ yelled a Fusilier with barbed skin and a pencil-thin moustache. ‘...that aren’t no damn Schleswig-Holstein story… its by that, what’s his name… wetback writer’.
[1] Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote
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