There is a kind of electricity in waiting. Not the waiting you do in lines or on hold or for someone else to change. I’m speaking of the deeper kind. The waiting that happens inside you.

“A little sloppy, don't you think? Clearly, this was a frame job. Someone wants me out of the picture.”

“ It would void my contract and I would die.”

“A subtle faint of marigolds fog over his senses.”

“Yeah. You know, smelly sock in the mouth, bound with oily rope, tied to a post…”

“… Fitz, now that’s a name one can sink his teeth into.”