The hunter had long given up on finding his home. His walk to nowhere was his daily journey. However, that nowhere became somewhere today. Before him, deep in the valley, was The Sea of Mirth, which beckoned him like a siren. It was free of pollution, so he went there to skinny dip, then dry himself off. Then he dressed and slept like a dead person for what seemed an eternity. The undulations of the waves, back and forth were like a mother's arms, rocking him to sleep. The sun-warmed sand felt like a part of him, and he was melti -ng. The squawk of seagulls blended into the gentle rumble of the waves creating a sonic lullaby both haunting and comforting. He wanted her to die with the taste of his own garden's blackberry jam on her lips, not his pork-and-garlic breath. Yes, I am considerate, he thought as he guided her to the cliff's endeavoring spirit by give her an unexpected shove in that direction. For a second or two, she really did look like she flew which surprised her & then she forgot how & she fell. - No, this would not do - she thought, hands flailing. She leaned in and uprighted her pitch. Aerodynamically, she was a brick. But belief helped raise her up beyond her physical limitations, and up she rose, straight up to Heaven. "Did you pitch a brick?" St. Peter asked her gently. "Aye," she said, "but it was I that flew." Peter checked it off on his clipboard. "Did you pinch a loaf," St. Peter asked. She blushed. St. Peter checked that off on his clipboard. He reached behind his pearly desk & handed her a paddle with a number on it. "The foreclosure auction is about to start," St. Peter said. "Everything must go. Hell!" DUN DUN DUNNNNNN~!



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