XII
[AI Boost ON]
The experience of observing, yet remaining powerless to avert, the robbery audacieux at the Savings and Loan had taken its toll on the venerable chief. In that fateful moment, as he stood amidst the chaos, lawlessness, and yet another reste spectral fumant curieux, a profound reckoning occurred within him. He resolved, there and then, that he could no longer bear the weight of his badge, nor the responsibilities it entailed. Retirement beckoned as the sole refuge from a career that had seemingly been defined by this grim tableau. And thus, with a heavy rib cage and a weary soul, he chose to bid adieu to his life in law enforcement.
As the sad tale of the chief’s departure from the force and retreat into the cravasse concluded my interview, I found myself wandering aimlessly through the hamlet’s winding streets. That place, the hamlet of my rêveries, exuded an air of timelessness, where the rhythm of existence appeared to unfold at its own unhurried pace.
[AI Boost OFF]
“Oh my God, Missy. Don’t look now, but here comes that Henry James wannabe verbalizer from The Writer’s Colon the other night.”
“Oh, Jesus. You mean that bloviating AI-dependent franco-phony narcissist who recited the lyrics from Thriller? I’ll handle him, Coco. Just recline regally upon that tuffet over there. I’ll sit on this worn but elegant bench sous l’arbre. Maybe he won’t see us.”
[AI Boost ON]
Amidst her quaint, cobblestone lanes, serendipity guided my steps to an unanticipated yet charmant encounter. There, beneath the dappled shade of a venerable oak tree, I happened upon Missy and Coco, the two denizens of The Writer’s Colon on whom I had once earnestly eavesdropped and whom I had re-encountered less than a fortnight ago.
Missy, undoubtedly a dead prom queen of undoubted grace, her manner in mine eyes poised and her gaze both probing and gentle despite her vacant eye sockets, sat upon a worn but elegant bench. Beside her, Coco, her seemingly ever-faithful companion, a feline of élégance exquise, reclined regally upon a tuffet. Theirs was a bond, it was said, forged in the crucible of the MISH, where words and inspirations flowed freely like a languid river.
In that instant, our worlds once again converged, and it was here, amidst the poetic embrasse of this paradisiacal place, that the story continued to unfurl.
[AI Boost OFF]
WRITER’S NOTE: Spotted by our narrator, Missy gets up and walks towards him. After a brief exchange, she returns to the worn but elegant bench under the venerable oak tree. Coco, still reclining regally upon her tuffet, inquires about the encounter. END NOTE.
“What’d you say to him, Missy?”
“I told him where to go if he wants to know the backstory. Dork First Class, that one. Who let him into the Mr. Funny Bones canon anyway?”
Mr. Funny Bones 