His place needed a lick of paint and the Butler’s jacket had seen better days.“Shall I show the, er, Gentleman, to the servants quarters,” blood... sarky Butler smirked.“No he is a guest, Mr" the bloke explained“Captain Beckintwaite,” I said, “I’m from bloody Yorkshire and speaks me bloody mind. Know thee’s bloody place or thee’ll feel me bloody belt cross thee bloody ass.”“I beg your pardon,” he said all sarky like, “Sir.”Bloody woman turns up, “By heck you’re an ugly bitch,” I says, “Hope you. I’d heard somewhere that black guys didn’t like to lick the jar.“Girl, did he lick your jar?”“Oh, God, Cully, did he, and I thought you were the living end at that. Ha.”I checked the phone. Dial tone was still there. I cradled it, then snatched it up fast to see if it really truly was live. “Thank Christ.”“How bout driving over there and hiding in that corn field next to his complex?”There had to be a cornfield there.“There’s one every other fuckin’ place.”It never bothered me that I talked to. More

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