BUENOS AIRES NIGHTSHADE
Gaetano ruminated the thought of how some plants naturally avoid incest as he pressed the air between the petals and his ample palm, carefully compressing the flower’s randy fragrance into a sigh. Then, he cut through the tropical fog of the vast conservatory with agile steps receiving the bow of the admiring Zingiber, the African flame tree, the Mirabilis, the Hibiscus, the Bombox ceiba, the Passiflora, the Frisia, the Oleander, the Mandragora, the Milkweed and the Belladonna. Hesitated in one step, but out stepped firmly from the warm hydroponics lights stage to the chilled semi-dark outside, the grayed northwestern air of the afternoon was brittle in his potent chest. Deftly, he dialed his cell and talked to Mr. Rubin about the dilapidated shutters on the first floor at the back of the decaying mansion in Belgrano, the important delivery pick up, and their recently departed gardening staff — he could hear Matilda fussing over him the expansive oak room upstairs from where the old man doesn’t descend any longer. After a pause, Gaetano softened his broad lips to a “you too, sir” and snapped shut the device like the Venus flytrap.
Ein Morgen in Berlin
You rise to kill André. Pack a Luger heat tucked in your thick belt. In leather armor, straddle your Triumph motorbike with spit shined horsepower. Yesterday you caressed that motorbike thinking of what you have to do, you took the muck off the chrome and off your wheels deep groove to not leave tracks behind.