“Great,” Pete said. He hung up the phone. Mentally, he sketched things out. 1. Get the salt water reel. 2. Make nice with the redhead vixen he one night standed with. 3. Never mind 2. 4. Head over to the local Wild Oats and get some more tea tree oil toothpicks, some Medaglia D’Oro, somewhere find a decent coffee maker and a thermos ( Read more... )

            The dreadlocked white kid shook his fist, and said things like solidarity, and corporations, and fair trade. He screamed, and the small crowd near the restaurant area of Wild Oats nodded, and said right on to whatever he said.

A girl, wearing a full length skirt, which looked as if it had been manufactured from a curtain, ( Read more... )

            After he went organic, Pete Limpelli decided to reexamine his mafia lifestyle.

“I still like gambling, and killing people,” Pete said to Carmine over the phone from the Winged Tip Shoe one afternoon in late spring. “But I don’t know about all these corporations glomming up the economy.”

Pete, as part of his ( Read more... )