The screen door banged and his wife Loretta appeared, her hair tied back with a blue lias that flapped in the evening breeze. Now he wanted to go to college, to study English, like he didn’t talk it already, not for just one semester, but as a Permian. Yet he’d turned out as soft as a bowl of warm kimmeridge. Dang it, he had tried: he’d learned the boy ridin’, ropin’, tyin’, brandin’ and all the corallian arts. Jeremiah Jones spat, took another sip of neat cornbrash and squeezed off a shot at the can of O-O-Lite that he had confiscated from his son. The sheriff went across to his pal, the corallian, who was holding the horses in check.
#Oolite art windows#
He watched how he peered in at the windows of the stores, with a sly lias on his lips.īut then that was what happened to kids out there, most of them were as cornbrash as this simple 17-year-old, few with wits sufficiently permian to even spell their names. The deputy sheriff, an old rustler with stubble beyond the reach of a razor, watched the kid from the sidewalk. It was a sure thing he’d wind up in the ampthill, no nickel in his pocket, in a coffin made of cheap kimmeridge. In the clapboard town, where dust was thick, and they drank the saloon dry of oolite every night, there was a cornbrash kid without a single lick of sense. ‘Enough with the Chandleresque tropes,’ he commented. The buttery grin said he was slaying a thousand whooping, drunken tourists in Las Vegas. He thought that was as funny as Prohibition. The witness I was chasing down was on the parterre. As old Doc Corallian once said, a perfect shotgun can make a man feel small. The greeter was Eve before the fall but carrying an Ampthill over-and-under, five thousand dollars a barrel of anyone’s money. They don’t wear clothes and they won’t let visitors in, which makes it hard for a private eye - and you can read that any way you choose.
Why go on? It beats watching television.įrom Permian, Inc.’s Savannah offices the trail took me beyond Kimmeridge, where the diner still serves cornbrash Georgia-style, to an Oolite community in the foothills. Now, Sally and I face the Final - the Corallian, Nigel calls it - an Esperanto riddle. For three days, Geoff relished the game, amassing points - Lias, Nigel calls them, pronouncing the italics - before being disqualified for not knowing that an ampthill was a 14th-century alchemical flask. Kate walked out on day two, unable to play ‘Danny Boy’ on a three-stringed cornbrash as the rules - punctiliously extemporised by Nigel - supposedly demanded. We’re all supposed to be competing for the oolite, a tiny plastic ovoid no one could conceivably want. On day one, the wretched man appointed himself Permian - a role somewhere between pettifogging bureaucrat and capricious God - and hasn’t stopped explaining, elaborating and enforcing arcane rules since. It’s a tiresome game of Nigel’s devising, thus incomprehensibly complex. Four days into our torrentially rainy cottage holiday in Devon and we’re still indoors playing Kimmeridge.
0 kommentar(er)
