StaciaJoy

All the signs are there. He's smoked three cigars in a row, glanced repeatedly at every passer-by with the slightest trace of uniform about their clothing, and even paced a few times, all without going a stone's throw from the storefront of Strony's Pub. No doubt about it: here is a bloke with something eating at him. But a man not knowing what to do is not surprising. The odd thing is that he'd try to find the answers to his problems in the tiny dust-coated town of – I check the locator tab in the upper left corner of my face-concealing visor again for the name – Griswold. I saw only two water-towers as I drew near earlier this