Primary Season

AT left, an image provided copyright free by our old friends, the Former Soviet Union.

Spasibo.

It is election time in the my local communist enclave. I don't live there but a trout fishing buddy does and I'll do anything to help my trout fishing buddies even when they are borderline communists.

Actually, I don't think the next town over is run by communists. It is run by communist sympathizers many with trust funds, so there.

I'm in the last throes of a decidedly unpleasant primary campaign which has come out favorable on the question of my buddy. Yea!

It is so much better in fiction than in politics. Problems? We write ourselves out of it. We just make stuff up ... like a five year plan.

My five year plan has me finishing the story I'm upon which I am grinding by the end of the month. I better get on with it. The NKVD will beat down my door if I am late.

We haven't seen the body yet. That's a bad place to be in a mystery story: corpse-less.

Go look in the rose garden. I left one there last story. I bet it is still around.

Where do you keep yours? A purse?