tale of king mole

yesterday a homeless man asked me to rob a bank with him the following day. i named him 'nicky britches'. he seemed like a silly old coot, so i asked him when we should do it. he replied, "tomorrow at 9 am!" i told him it was a little early for me. he waved me away and stummbled away. i wanted to stop him tell him i really did want to rob the bank, but i ...i ...i don't know what to say.

i left bad. i felt lazy. i never got tattoes so that i could turn to a life of crime and never worry about distinguising marks.

i hope nicky britches was able to rob that bank without me. i'd get all red in the face if he got caught and then after a prison sentence of 20 years come looking for his ex-partner who "couldn't commit". he'd knock on my door just to slap my face and say, "traitor!" then i'd have to take care of his kids after he fell down the stairs breaking his neck. his oldest, carrie jo, would be a pre-teen girl with no respect. i'd worry and worry that she'd be making the wrong choices. only nicky's youngest, stinky, would brighten my day with his amazing talent to solve puzzles even though he never talked.

but hopefully, just hopefully, carrie jo would one night find that she was heading in the wrong direction and after an almost terrible happening, she'd come home and thank me for always being the father she never had. eventually, she gorw up and be the top of her class at stanford, going on the be one of the top attorneys in the land. stinky would talk again on a christmas eve and we'd all live happily ever after. except for sid, one of the middle childern, he fell into a deep well and became 'king mole'.