I don’t mind vultures.
Unless they’re my bookie.
We were on the trail of this guy who’d jumped parole–small time mobster, put up on narcotics charges while they tried to get some real dirt on him–who’d gone to ground outside of Vegas somewhere. I hadn’t wanted it to turn into an overnight job, but it aint like the crooks are gonna arrange their escape routes for my convenience.
I can’t sleep. I’m worried about those vultures!
“Stop worrying. They only eat dead things.” Like your brain.
…well, how’s that diff’rent from anything else? What if they kill me AND THEN eat me, huh?
“Well, what if I kill you and then let them eat you? That’d shut you up and I could sleep!”
Then not half an hour later (which I could tell, kids, cause of how the moon had moved) he’s at it again.
Sly, I’m scared!
“…the vultures again?”
Huh? Oh, no, turns out they’re swell. One of em was a doc and gave me a check-up, even.
Scorpions! In my sleeping bag!
“…are they QUIET scorpions?”
Uh, I guess.
“Then let em stay. They can’t be worse than trying to sleep next to you.”
I really gotta do something about Max’s DTs.
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You’re currently reading “I don’t mind vultures.,” an entry on Reynard Noir: The Seedy Underworld of Slylock Fox
- July 3, 2007 / 6:07 pm
- max being stupid