Mad Anthony’s Nightfield

“What are we looking at, shipmateman?”

Reggie the shipmateman paused, then: “We’re looking for your husband Ms. Halsey.” She’d given the order not 15 minutes ago.

“Ms. Halsey, good,” replied Linda about her title. “Remember, don’t shoot till you see the whites of his eyes.”

“Yes, Ms. Halsey.”

“Yes, Ms. Halsey,” echoes the other shipmateman on the wall opposite them, listening in. Johnny I think was his name. Or Karl.

“In all likelihood he won’t show up but keep looking. He’s probably on to me knowing I’m on to him.”

“Yes Ms. Halsey,” they said in unison while peering out but now not expecting anything to appear.

—–

“I’m glad you came to meet me Saffie. I want to know *all* about what Marty said to you, what hollow promises he made. Because I’m here to warn you away from him. He’s bad news. He’s involved with those nasty Illuminati fellows!”

“Girls,” Saffie said softly across from her.

“What’s that?”

Saffie took another sip of beer. “We also… have girls.”

“*We*??”

—–

Linda rushes back to the entrance gate, drunk on malt (again). “Shoot him dead,” she commanded to the shipmatemen. “Don’t even wait for the whites.”

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