The water crisis is over

Phew. I’m not sure how much longer I could have continued with the water boiling, my face fat and red from the steam, feeling like a god damned hauler in the bowels of a steamboat. The crack of the whip extending no gratitude, and the prying eyes of on board thieves and hustlers searching your person for gold and inadequacies, ready to knife you in the night if a dollar or two come of it. Blessed be the meek, for without them I would have no one to contrast with.

And them nights you don’t sleep but wait for the blade or for some rapist to come over you in the hammock. God turns a blind eye to what matter of affairs are conducted in the night under the pretext of free will. I shudder, I say, at those circumstances which reduce men to beasts and beasts to dogs. Apart from that, healthy pessimism has become a valuable cargo.

Alas, one of my cohabitants of fate is ill positioned for my good opinion. Whatever may happen in the turbulence of this conflict no one can say. But my temper runs red when someone of the meek starts pissing up the wrong tree, my tree, not seemly unaware of his or hers doing so. The outright impertinence or defiance of rules agreed to prior by the agents in case, is nothing but a challenge for gunfight, and I will not yield a coward in that event. On the contrary. I am not a man with whom to fuck.

Also, I speak like E.B. Farnum. Good thing Yoda that I watched it was not.

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