My Cardboard Balcony

Like A Chimney by Belinda Roddie Yes, sir. No, sir. I told you so, sir. There he sits, sticking two cigars up his nose, sir. One in each nostril, that ossified fossil lights up like a smoke stack, clouded like a cataract. Wore a cap today, sir. Don't have cash to pay, sir. He won't hand a penny over 'til he's dead and gray, sir. I'd prefer a chimney to the pleasure of his company. He'll be burned to ash one night, but we'll just have to wait and see.

He claimed that my arguments were unfounded, but I pressed on, I packed two suitcases. I grabbed my keys. I drove the truck all the way to the nearest hotel, which was, on a quarter tank of gas, an impressive feat - the closest stop to rest was a good fifty or so miles away from our very, very remote cottage. I checked into a shabby room. I turned on the TV. Most importantly, I ignored any and all calls from him, setting my phone to silent.