Not-Exactly-Chopped-Liver Fiction™
a could-be-worse division of None-Too-Shabby Enterpises, Ink
PRESENTS :
The History of Gin
or
A Fox's Tail©
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 21
The Unbearable Lightness of Peeing
or
A Fox's Tail©
Is Life Existential? You Decide.
by ' Colorado ' Gumi
...I n s p i r e d By T r u e E v e n t s...
Chapter 21
The Unbearable Lightness of Peeing
"You unlock this door with the key of imagination.
Beyond it is another dimension -
A dimension of sound.
A dimension of sight.
A dimension of mind.
You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance.
Of things and ideas.
You've just crossed over into;
The Twilight Zone."
Beyond it is another dimension -
A dimension of sound.
A dimension of sight.
A dimension of mind.
You're moving into a land of both shadow and substance.
Of things and ideas.
You've just crossed over into;
The Twilight Zone."
A young woman, smiling in anticipation, stands with garden hose at lawn's edge, surveying a thirsty patch of plump watermelons. She begins twisting the brass nozzle to drench the green orbs of saturated sweetness in a spewing stream... From this vantage, through a wide kitchen window, the faucet empties noisily into stoppered kitchen sink. Clear water rises slowly to the porcelain rim; it crests in a surge but is not released. Rather the fluid tumbles into the empty side of the double sink, which also is stopped. Once more inching up, a watery volume now threatens to overflow to the floor -- the water surface bulges with tension as it nears escape... In a nearby brook a liquid ribbon trickles along the bed, babbling happily on its way. The watery sound is engaging and hypnotic as the flow bounces along, tossing fat, noisy drops against stones and leaves... Farther down a fresh beaver dam impounds this fluid, which is going nowhere. . .just building and building; steadily pressing against confinment. All day long the pond's level has risen, creeping slowly up the frail embankment that blocks the sweet satisfaction of release... Overhead roiling waves of pregnant clouds race to blanket the sky; bellies obese with swelling burdens of rain. Though aching to release a torrent, the swollen clouds must wait and hold fast against mounting pressure; not a drop can escape before it is time...
"Submitted for your approval. Ginger Sue Mullins,
portrait of a dreamy young woman.
Ginger has many dreams.
Some are the literal aspirations of consciousness.
Others are the idle longings of daydream.
Then there are the frilly pink thingys that bubble up
when she is really into a good snore . . .
snuffling softly as she floats on a satin bed,
wrapped in downy covers,
soft brown eyes darting behind tight lids.
But the dreams this time will be different.
Because this time Ginny is dreaming
...in 'The Twilight Zone'."
portrait of a dreamy young woman.
Ginger has many dreams.
Some are the literal aspirations of consciousness.
Others are the idle longings of daydream.
Then there are the frilly pink thingys that bubble up
when she is really into a good snore . . .
snuffling softly as she floats on a satin bed,
wrapped in downy covers,
soft brown eyes darting behind tight lids.
But the dreams this time will be different.
Because this time Ginny is dreaming
...in 'The Twilight Zone'."
From her car a woman scrambles to a nearby house after a long trip from the city. -- Failing to go before embarking, she drank an extra-large Dunkin Donuts coffee, a 24 oz. bottle of some fancy water and a Coke while driving. Upon the first twinge from protesting bladder she stopped at a gas station toilet. It was filthy; she refused to go in. Back on the bumpy road her kidneys soon throbbed in time to the slow click of tire treads as the car barely inched along in an interminable traffic jam. With fresh memories of that nasty gas station, she'd resolved not to stop again, in spite of the agony. Her back teeth were floating as she slowly rolled through several School Zones in town, only to wind up behind a school bus packed with bouncing kids. Her kidneys still throbbed, now in sync with the bus' flashing red lights at each excruciating stop. Finally she reached the driveway.
At the door, entry is barred by a lock set to keep her home safe from intrusion. She fumbles to open a zippered bag, scrabbles to find an elusive key, dances before a wavering keyhole and resistant new lock. The deluge looming in the sky over her shoulder just adds to the tension, slowing fingers and legs. All the while she's tormented by the image of a dark, damp spot appearing suddenly on an expanse of pristine white cotton fabric; the darkness spreads, corrupting everything with humiliating wetness -- She can't allow that. Her entire intellect - at that moment - condenses to a single thought stomping with heavy boots through her being ..."NOT YET! NOT YET! NOT YET!"... as she fumbles with the lock.
The Wal*Mart is nestled close by along Routes 34/13 amongst the web of channels connected to the ripply waters of Cayuga Lake. Strolling the aisles of this mega-store can, and did, take an hour or more. Now the woman looks for the ladies' room; itself a daunting quest in such stores. Anguished minutes later the restroom is found. . .to be closed for cleaning. Summoning the reserve of will that always must be there, she continues gawking at merchandise, making every effort to appear nonchalant while straining to keep a protesting bladder sealed watertight. Her universe collapses into a pair of opposing elemental forces; a throbbing demand to release the pressure and the stronger need to fight the urge. Preoccupied by the conflict raging deep, she maintains a mindless orbit close by the restroom, awaiting its opening. She stops in a daze, staring at lines of shelves before her. The nature of the products on these particular shelves eventually penetrates the stupor. Adult incontinence products. Stack upon beckoning stack of adult diapers ...of every type and description. And close by, bulging packages of thick, absorbent bed pads. They call, bewitching her thoughts; telling her she's wearing one now; that it would be OK; the pain would drain with the flow; every drop would be caught; no one the wiser. JUST LET GO. NO. She fights the urge that MUST be controlled for one to live with dignity in any culture on Earth. She would wait for one more minute. . .two more minutes. . .three more minutes. . .for lingering second mounted on second after lingering second...
Far away and a while ago, the "Prague Spring" ends in a blizzard of invasion. The streets of Prague often have echoed the sounds of armor... clanging shields, clinking chainmail, clomping knights, clattering calvary, clanking panzers. Now the clunk of Russian tanks. Tereza was desperate. Stuck on the streets at night amid the mounding tension her concern was not the tanks nor the infantry nor some other danger. Her concern was the fact she had to go bad and couldn't find anywhere. She cursed herself for drinking so many delicious Czech pilsners at the bar. She castigated herself for not going before she left that place. She condemned the curfew that closed everything between the bar and the long way home. Where could she go? She had to find someplace... But she refused dishonor -- Her whole life she always had gone with dignity, on a proper toilet, with her knees discreetly together and when done, wiping from front to back. That wouldn't change now, and it never would! But her taut bladder was about to explode. As she scampered along, a dangerous thought washed her repeatedly... "Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak"; it pressed on her with unstoppable and irresistible certainty. The tormented muscle holding it back was on fire. One cannot permit desperate thoughts a toehold, they become self-fulfilling. But her dammed kidneys were throbbing.
Where was she now, anyways?? Wait -- That building down the next street and over one block. . .the Train Station, with a sweet multitude of Water Closets. She could make it if she squeezed tight -- tighter then she ever squeezed before. She hurried forward in a strange, stiff shuffle. Drawing closer she knew she could make it. Yes, she had the power to make it. . .just around a corner and across a street. Closing on the goal, she then noticed the military vehicles parked at intervals along the street. . .the soldiers stationed at intervals between the vehicles. . .the people roughly turned back from entering the Station. She stopped, knowing she would lose control at the mere thought of explaining all this to a Russian. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized the tired little muscular ring was relaxing against her will.
Back in New York City a woman sits in an important meeting of her firm; important not particularly in a business sense, its more a "Beauty Pageant" of office politics. Although the meeting definitely is not about her, she and the other young aspirants there are on display for judgment by their elders, like Rockefeller children round the dinner table -- Behavior must be perfect to remain "Partner-worthy." Only thing is. . .she has to pee.
Oh yeah... all day long she happily gulped the juice and soft-drinks provided gratis by the firm. She sent the office gophers out for flavorful frappuccinos that on arrival gurgled quickly down her gullet. And she guzzled fancy foreign waters from recyclable designer bottles. All this was done with giddy abandon. Then she rushed to the late afternoon meeting without first ducking into a Ladies' Room. She was smiling when the thing started; even sipping from another delicious cup of coffee.
Now the piper is being paid. She squirms deeply into the chair as a newly-minted junior partner continues the excruciating Power Point presentation he dreamed up at home late yesterday sitting before his original Dali. Through the night the presentation expanded in concert with his inflating ego as he contemplated the opposing wall where an anticipated Van Gogh would hang. ...Slide follows slide in super slo-mo. She visualizes her kidneys rolling up sleeves and warming to their task; wringing even more moisture out of her insides, drop by drop, and merrily sending it all downstream to her bladder, which seems to float in her chest. "Row, Row, Row your boat" plays on an endless loop through her head -- She curses their diligence and wishes those pesky little fellas would slack up a bit; maybe even call it a day. ...Meanwhile this presentation grinds on and on.
In extreme distress, pain and boredom, she drifts somewhat from full consciousness and imagines herself on a toilet. This image becomes reality. What a hoot... the meeting is a daydream and she actually is in a restroom after all. GREAT!. . .It's OK. . .She can let go. . .End the pain. . .It's now time. . .Everything will be fine. . .Just a moment more to finally unclinch the knotted little muscle. She sighs with relief, happy that the first drops soon will flow free...
In an apartment back at school, a young bleached-blond woman reclines in the empty bathtub. A second women, naked except for a pink pullover sweater, stands in the tub over the prostrate woman. During the long evening the second has imbibed several potent pilsners imported from the Czech Republic. Her bladder is distressingly taut with the fluids efficiently processed from that lager. She doesn't understand why Stacey always craves the thing she is about to do, but she does know she has come to enjoy doing it -- It seems appropriate; even deserved.
She plants a foot firmly on the edge of the tub to spread her legs. Her hand descends to the place between, where fingers spread the skin a trifle and pull up a tad to ensure the stream flows freely and directly on target. Tilting her hips a bit to perfect the aim, she begins to telegraph the enabling command, willing it to race along a familiar nerve to the protesting ring of muscle. Soon the dull ache in her belly will rush in an arching flow that strikes the eager, upturned face she sees there beneath her...
Far to the north in a small rented cottage, two women are gabbing, as is their wont; sharing female confidences about. . .feelings. . .relationships. . .Oprah... One of the women is a particular fox. As they wax philosophic they share something else, which they smoke. -- Call it a Marlboro for the sake of discussion. And in the bathroom, which has gone unused for an inordinate time considering we're talking about women here, the toilet leaks; noisily trickling water into the bowl as is the watery way of leaky toilets. But this harbinger does not penetrate the smoke about their heads.
Instead they chug lots more Sam Adams and lite another Marlboro. "Puff, the Magic Dragon" now is playing on the radio. The song before that was "Don't Bogart Me." The next song probably will be "Norwegian Wood." Things are really getting groovy. If the hallmarks of the "Love Generation"; Hippy tie-dye. . .daisies. . .incense... aren't actually present, they are there in spirit. And in the bathroom, calling with a Siren's insistence that is ignored at peril, incessant streams from both the shower head and tub spigot splash on the slick porcelain like waves against Scylla, then gurgle down the dark Charybdian drain. But the bathroom's call hangs in the air, unanswered.
Both women smile when the foxy one bogarts the Marlboro. Actually, the funny part was she didn't "Bogart" so much as "Gable" it; meaning that when confronted about a perceived inequitable distribution of the item, she replied; "Frankly, my Dear, I don't give a Damn." And in the bathroom, drops of water form at the sink faucet, grow fat quickly, bulge with gravity and fall free into space, mimicking, in reverse, the globular boil of a lava lamp. The escaping drops plop loudly in the sink below, which is clogged with the long hairs of countless co-ed vacationers -- the water level mounts inexorably in sympathy with the growing pressure in the women's bladders. But all this goes unperceived, for now.
Instead, the foxy woman starts to giggle -- who knows why, maybe the broom or the fan on the ceiling caused it. The giggles escalate to chuckles, as amusement often can. Again who knows why, perhaps a sudden realization that the broom and the ceiling fan that ignited the whole thing aren't even there. . .At this point answers are not possible nor even important. What is important are the involuntary muscular gymnastics in the fox's abdomen as her laughter evolves into one of those wrenching doubled-over bellylaffs that force tears from squinting eyes and empty lungs with unstoppable brays and hoots of humor. Of ancillary pertinence is the mounting pressure and flagging control downstream of her kidneys. When she manages to pry an eye open against the incredible weight of this funniest moment on Earth and sees her companion rolling backwards from her seat with sympathetic horselaffs, the mirth increases beyond all human endurance.
Just as foretold by the classic cinematic Cassandra, "Reefer Madness", consumption of Marlboros consistently conceives cruel cacophonies of cascading crazy cackles culminating in catastrophic consequences. Wracked by convulsive laughter, the foxy one's grip on things slips momentarily and the iron-willed ring of muscle that confines pulsing pressure and staunches fouling flow twitches for an instant. That's all it takes. A dark spot appears at the crotch of the woman's blue jeans as the hot liquid jet escapes like the spew of misfortune from Pandora's Box.
Dark blue wetness spreads over the lighter jean fabric like Mongols across Eurasia, only funnier. And like the hapless souls in their path, the fox couldn't stop it if she wanted. So there she was, marked with embarrassing oblongs of chilling moisture staining her jeans from the crotch. Although one might expect such an event would reinforce the shrill warning that casual indulgence in Marlboros inevitably leads to more serious things, such as peeing one's pants, the two friends continue to hoot over it for another hour or more. Perhaps they still are laughing about it...
Warned of impeding calamity by increasingly strident dreams, Ginny bolts fully awake in bed. Absently rubbing her pert bosoms, she scuffs to the bathroom and has a really long and satisfying pee. Giddy with relief she climbs in bed and returns quickly to slumber. Her brown eyes again dart behind lids rimmed with graceful, dark lashes. Snoring softly and drooling a lot, she now dreams of going to Starbuck's, ordering a medium cappuccino, meeting Jon Stewart at the condiment counter and seducing him in a hot tangle of arms and legs. It was better than she had ever hoped....
At the door, entry is barred by a lock set to keep her home safe from intrusion. She fumbles to open a zippered bag, scrabbles to find an elusive key, dances before a wavering keyhole and resistant new lock. The deluge looming in the sky over her shoulder just adds to the tension, slowing fingers and legs. All the while she's tormented by the image of a dark, damp spot appearing suddenly on an expanse of pristine white cotton fabric; the darkness spreads, corrupting everything with humiliating wetness -- She can't allow that. Her entire intellect - at that moment - condenses to a single thought stomping with heavy boots through her being ..."NOT YET! NOT YET! NOT YET!"... as she fumbles with the lock.
The Wal*Mart is nestled close by along Routes 34/13 amongst the web of channels connected to the ripply waters of Cayuga Lake. Strolling the aisles of this mega-store can, and did, take an hour or more. Now the woman looks for the ladies' room; itself a daunting quest in such stores. Anguished minutes later the restroom is found. . .to be closed for cleaning. Summoning the reserve of will that always must be there, she continues gawking at merchandise, making every effort to appear nonchalant while straining to keep a protesting bladder sealed watertight. Her universe collapses into a pair of opposing elemental forces; a throbbing demand to release the pressure and the stronger need to fight the urge. Preoccupied by the conflict raging deep, she maintains a mindless orbit close by the restroom, awaiting its opening. She stops in a daze, staring at lines of shelves before her. The nature of the products on these particular shelves eventually penetrates the stupor. Adult incontinence products. Stack upon beckoning stack of adult diapers ...of every type and description. And close by, bulging packages of thick, absorbent bed pads. They call, bewitching her thoughts; telling her she's wearing one now; that it would be OK; the pain would drain with the flow; every drop would be caught; no one the wiser. JUST LET GO. NO. She fights the urge that MUST be controlled for one to live with dignity in any culture on Earth. She would wait for one more minute. . .two more minutes. . .three more minutes. . .for lingering second mounted on second after lingering second...
Far away and a while ago, the "Prague Spring" ends in a blizzard of invasion. The streets of Prague often have echoed the sounds of armor... clanging shields, clinking chainmail, clomping knights, clattering calvary, clanking panzers. Now the clunk of Russian tanks. Tereza was desperate. Stuck on the streets at night amid the mounding tension her concern was not the tanks nor the infantry nor some other danger. Her concern was the fact she had to go bad and couldn't find anywhere. She cursed herself for drinking so many delicious Czech pilsners at the bar. She castigated herself for not going before she left that place. She condemned the curfew that closed everything between the bar and the long way home. Where could she go? She had to find someplace... But she refused dishonor -- Her whole life she always had gone with dignity, on a proper toilet, with her knees discreetly together and when done, wiping from front to back. That wouldn't change now, and it never would! But her taut bladder was about to explode. As she scampered along, a dangerous thought washed her repeatedly... "Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak". . ."Any minute I'm gonna leak"; it pressed on her with unstoppable and irresistible certainty. The tormented muscle holding it back was on fire. One cannot permit desperate thoughts a toehold, they become self-fulfilling. But her dammed kidneys were throbbing.
Where was she now, anyways?? Wait -- That building down the next street and over one block. . .the Train Station, with a sweet multitude of Water Closets. She could make it if she squeezed tight -- tighter then she ever squeezed before. She hurried forward in a strange, stiff shuffle. Drawing closer she knew she could make it. Yes, she had the power to make it. . .just around a corner and across a street. Closing on the goal, she then noticed the military vehicles parked at intervals along the street. . .the soldiers stationed at intervals between the vehicles. . .the people roughly turned back from entering the Station. She stopped, knowing she would lose control at the mere thought of explaining all this to a Russian. Tears welled in her eyes as she realized the tired little muscular ring was relaxing against her will.
Back in New York City a woman sits in an important meeting of her firm; important not particularly in a business sense, its more a "Beauty Pageant" of office politics. Although the meeting definitely is not about her, she and the other young aspirants there are on display for judgment by their elders, like Rockefeller children round the dinner table -- Behavior must be perfect to remain "Partner-worthy." Only thing is. . .she has to pee.
Oh yeah... all day long she happily gulped the juice and soft-drinks provided gratis by the firm. She sent the office gophers out for flavorful frappuccinos that on arrival gurgled quickly down her gullet. And she guzzled fancy foreign waters from recyclable designer bottles. All this was done with giddy abandon. Then she rushed to the late afternoon meeting without first ducking into a Ladies' Room. She was smiling when the thing started; even sipping from another delicious cup of coffee.
Now the piper is being paid. She squirms deeply into the chair as a newly-minted junior partner continues the excruciating Power Point presentation he dreamed up at home late yesterday sitting before his original Dali. Through the night the presentation expanded in concert with his inflating ego as he contemplated the opposing wall where an anticipated Van Gogh would hang. ...Slide follows slide in super slo-mo. She visualizes her kidneys rolling up sleeves and warming to their task; wringing even more moisture out of her insides, drop by drop, and merrily sending it all downstream to her bladder, which seems to float in her chest. "Row, Row, Row your boat" plays on an endless loop through her head -- She curses their diligence and wishes those pesky little fellas would slack up a bit; maybe even call it a day. ...Meanwhile this presentation grinds on and on.
In extreme distress, pain and boredom, she drifts somewhat from full consciousness and imagines herself on a toilet. This image becomes reality. What a hoot... the meeting is a daydream and she actually is in a restroom after all. GREAT!. . .It's OK. . .She can let go. . .End the pain. . .It's now time. . .Everything will be fine. . .Just a moment more to finally unclinch the knotted little muscle. She sighs with relief, happy that the first drops soon will flow free...
In an apartment back at school, a young bleached-blond woman reclines in the empty bathtub. A second women, naked except for a pink pullover sweater, stands in the tub over the prostrate woman. During the long evening the second has imbibed several potent pilsners imported from the Czech Republic. Her bladder is distressingly taut with the fluids efficiently processed from that lager. She doesn't understand why Stacey always craves the thing she is about to do, but she does know she has come to enjoy doing it -- It seems appropriate; even deserved.
She plants a foot firmly on the edge of the tub to spread her legs. Her hand descends to the place between, where fingers spread the skin a trifle and pull up a tad to ensure the stream flows freely and directly on target. Tilting her hips a bit to perfect the aim, she begins to telegraph the enabling command, willing it to race along a familiar nerve to the protesting ring of muscle. Soon the dull ache in her belly will rush in an arching flow that strikes the eager, upturned face she sees there beneath her...
Far to the north in a small rented cottage, two women are gabbing, as is their wont; sharing female confidences about. . .feelings. . .relationships. . .Oprah... One of the women is a particular fox. As they wax philosophic they share something else, which they smoke. -- Call it a Marlboro for the sake of discussion. And in the bathroom, which has gone unused for an inordinate time considering we're talking about women here, the toilet leaks; noisily trickling water into the bowl as is the watery way of leaky toilets. But this harbinger does not penetrate the smoke about their heads.
Instead they chug lots more Sam Adams and lite another Marlboro. "Puff, the Magic Dragon" now is playing on the radio. The song before that was "Don't Bogart Me." The next song probably will be "Norwegian Wood." Things are really getting groovy. If the hallmarks of the "Love Generation"; Hippy tie-dye. . .daisies. . .incense... aren't actually present, they are there in spirit. And in the bathroom, calling with a Siren's insistence that is ignored at peril, incessant streams from both the shower head and tub spigot splash on the slick porcelain like waves against Scylla, then gurgle down the dark Charybdian drain. But the bathroom's call hangs in the air, unanswered.
Both women smile when the foxy one bogarts the Marlboro. Actually, the funny part was she didn't "Bogart" so much as "Gable" it; meaning that when confronted about a perceived inequitable distribution of the item, she replied; "Frankly, my Dear, I don't give a Damn." And in the bathroom, drops of water form at the sink faucet, grow fat quickly, bulge with gravity and fall free into space, mimicking, in reverse, the globular boil of a lava lamp. The escaping drops plop loudly in the sink below, which is clogged with the long hairs of countless co-ed vacationers -- the water level mounts inexorably in sympathy with the growing pressure in the women's bladders. But all this goes unperceived, for now.
Instead, the foxy woman starts to giggle -- who knows why, maybe the broom or the fan on the ceiling caused it. The giggles escalate to chuckles, as amusement often can. Again who knows why, perhaps a sudden realization that the broom and the ceiling fan that ignited the whole thing aren't even there. . .At this point answers are not possible nor even important. What is important are the involuntary muscular gymnastics in the fox's abdomen as her laughter evolves into one of those wrenching doubled-over bellylaffs that force tears from squinting eyes and empty lungs with unstoppable brays and hoots of humor. Of ancillary pertinence is the mounting pressure and flagging control downstream of her kidneys. When she manages to pry an eye open against the incredible weight of this funniest moment on Earth and sees her companion rolling backwards from her seat with sympathetic horselaffs, the mirth increases beyond all human endurance.
Just as foretold by the classic cinematic Cassandra, "Reefer Madness", consumption of Marlboros consistently conceives cruel cacophonies of cascading crazy cackles culminating in catastrophic consequences. Wracked by convulsive laughter, the foxy one's grip on things slips momentarily and the iron-willed ring of muscle that confines pulsing pressure and staunches fouling flow twitches for an instant. That's all it takes. A dark spot appears at the crotch of the woman's blue jeans as the hot liquid jet escapes like the spew of misfortune from Pandora's Box.
Dark blue wetness spreads over the lighter jean fabric like Mongols across Eurasia, only funnier. And like the hapless souls in their path, the fox couldn't stop it if she wanted. So there she was, marked with embarrassing oblongs of chilling moisture staining her jeans from the crotch. Although one might expect such an event would reinforce the shrill warning that casual indulgence in Marlboros inevitably leads to more serious things, such as peeing one's pants, the two friends continue to hoot over it for another hour or more. Perhaps they still are laughing about it...
Warned of impeding calamity by increasingly strident dreams, Ginny bolts fully awake in bed. Absently rubbing her pert bosoms, she scuffs to the bathroom and has a really long and satisfying pee. Giddy with relief she climbs in bed and returns quickly to slumber. Her brown eyes again dart behind lids rimmed with graceful, dark lashes. Snoring softly and drooling a lot, she now dreams of going to Starbuck's, ordering a medium cappuccino, meeting Jon Stewart at the condiment counter and seducing him in a hot tangle of arms and legs. It was better than she had ever hoped....
Stay tuned for a word from our sponsor.
The word is:
"iPhone!"
And now, Mr. Serling...
"Next week we'll take yet another heady
draft from the brimming talent-laced goblet of
"The History of Gin." The author promises a
treat with a special twist. Be sure to join us.
You'll be glad you did."
The word is:
"iPhone!"
And now, Mr. Serling...
"Next week we'll take yet another heady
draft from the brimming talent-laced goblet of
"The History of Gin." The author promises a
treat with a special twist. Be sure to join us.
You'll be glad you did."
To Be Continued
