It was forever known that nothing lasts. That didn't stop Luther -that sop - from winnowing his dreams down to a fine powder and selling them on the open market. Not that they raised an eyebrow. The only buyers were catatonic navel gazers and their eyebrows were singed clean off.
But there came a day a notion patrol wendered through the stalls and that was all she wrote, she being Judy the Obscure, a Pulitzer in waiting, stuck on the city desk of the Commercial-Telegraph-Clarion-Post. All that had been Luther was chucked against curbs, scrutinized and forgotten by the denizens of that fair city. Luther in cuffs rolled up with fish guts. Such a waste.
[to be continued..]
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