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Monday, September 29, 2014

The Last Third is mine.

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 A story by 3 authors

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Friday Flash Fiction: Half a Clue

I'm gradually getting photos in order, so I thought I'd jump back into the Friday Flash Fiction with Chuck Wendig's weekly challenge. This week, the challenge was to continue a story begun last week by another Wendigo. I selected Jemima Pett's fun mystery, "Half a Clue." Just because he can, Chuck changed the rules on us after the first week, so Ms. Pett's half a story is now 1/3 of a story. Or whatever he insists on. I complicated things enough for several more 500-word segments if needed.

Oh, and I finished early, so my Friday flash goes up on Thursday. So sue me.

Half a Clue

(This is what Jemima Pett wrote last week)
The last thing Scarlett expected to find that morning was a dead body.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the excitement of the previous evening she had not slept well. The stuffy old dinner party had turned out to be so much more. As usual, she had been seated next to the vicar, and his groping hands had strayed to her thigh on several occasions. Her mother had asserted some years earlier that little girls did not tell tales, especially about such a respectable person. On maintaining the truth of her allegations, she had been sent to her bed without supper for five consecutive days. She had learned to endure and avoid as a result.

The only person she had confided in was Alba White, the cook. To her immense relief, Alba just nodded. “Say nothing more,” she had advised, and gave her a signal to give to the butler. On the next occasion the vicar’s attentions became too intimate, Scarlett acted as planned, and the reverend was mysteriously taken ill after the sweet course. Last night it happened again, and Scarlett hoped the man of a different god than hers could see it was divine retribution.

She had thrown off that mischief after dinner. Russell Peacock, home from the war, and his mother had been the centre of attention. Russell only had five days leave, but he looked so handsome – and so grown up since their last meeting in the summer. They had known each other since childhood, of course, but there was something so different about him now, it made her heart fizz. Even their entrance had been exciting. Reeves had announced them, of course, but as Russell had shaken her father’s hand his eyes had turned to her, that sudden spark shooting through her, confirming his thoughts were on her as much as hers were of him.

He had done his duty to the rest of the company, of course, and he and Scarlett had only minutes together before dinner was announced, minutes that Scarlett had dissected and savoured in the early hours when she was trying to sleep. Of course, she also examined the scene that, having simmered throughout dinner, finally erupted afterwards. How dare the stuffy old Colonel disagree with Russell about his analysis of the Hun? What right had he to call Russell a ‘young pup’? Scarlett thought Russell had been most heroic in the way he controlled his rising embarrassment tinged with ire. The Colonel was drunk even before he arrived, or so she had heard the professor whisper as he gently led the old soldier onto the terrace after the meal.

Scarlett’s only regret about the evening was its premature ending; Russell and his mother had to return early to nurse his sick father.

So much for Scarlett to think about. No wonder she had risen early to see the dawn. It had just been the last thing she expected to find: Colonel Mustard, in the library, a revolver by his side.


[And hereis where I take up the tale]

Scarlett drew in a breath to scream, then thought better of it. A scream would draw the whole household, blustering or hysterical as their personalities dictated. She closed her mouth and rang for Reeves.

She met the butler at the door.  “It’s the Colonel.”

“Has he been taken ill, Miss Scarlett?”

“He’s been taken dead.” Surprised at her own calm bluntness, Scarlett stepped aside to reveal the corpse on the library rug. Reeves sniffed his disapproval, of bodies messing up his rugs and of young ladies finding them.

“You go to the kitchen, and ask Cook for tea. I will telephone the police.”

An hour later, Inspector Clueso had them all lined up in the lounge. A pair of policemen, or surgeons, or something, worked over the thing in the library.

Scarlett had blurted out the news as soon as they were gathered, of course. Colonel Mustard was dead in the library, with a revolver at his side. Speculation ran wild. Whose revolver? Had he shot himself? Had someone else shot him, and left the gun to make it look like suicide? Who could have hated the old army man that much? People got annoyed with the Colonel, with his rambling stories and his dogmatic pronouncements, but they didn’t generally care that much what he said.

Scarlett hadn’t mentioned what her quick look at the body had shown her: that the gun had not killed the Colonel. And she very much doubted he had killed himself. Not that way.

The Inspector looked over the household. Mrs. White managed the staff at one end of the room, while Reeves kept the family and guests comfortable in the over-stuffed chairs around the fire. “Is anyone missing who was here last night?”

Scarlett glanced at her mother. “There’s the Vicar,” she ventured. “Reverend Green.”

“But he went home after the pheasant, poor man,” her mother protested. “He said he felt rather ill, and I’m sure he looked it.”

Scarlett avoided looking at Reeves. She was sure the Vicar had felt very ill indeed.

The professor cleared his throat. “There was Mrs. Peacock and her son. They departed rather early, as the senior Mr. Peacock is ill. Young Mr. Peacock is home on leave from France.”

Scarlett glared at him. How dare Professor Plum hint that Russell could have had anything to do with it? She thought of the Colonel’s blustering dismissal of all Russell’s opinions about the war. But Russell had kept his temper so beautifully! And anyway, he and his mother had been long gone before this had happened. Well, the Inspector would have to figure it out. At least so far he’d been smart enough not to mention how the man had really died.

Scarlett glanced out the tall windows that opened onto the garden, and her heart began to pound. Russell Peacock was crossing the wide lawn, his cap pushed back and lips pursed as he whistled a tune she couldn’t hear, but imagined was “A Long Way to Tipperary.”

(My piece)

Russell came in from the garden, still whistling until he saw the assembled faces looking at him.

"I say. Whats up? Everyone's looking rather glum."

Inspector Clueso spoke "Per'aps you can helpme. There's been a murder."

He pointed at Russell. "You 'ad a quarrel wiz Colonel Mustard last night?"

"Not exactly. He just didn't think I understood much about war. It was nothing."

"But you did not, how you say?, kiss and make up before leaving did you?" Clueso twiddled his moustache as he waited for an answer. Russell started to speak but Scarlett jumped into the interrogation.

"This isn't fair . Russell went home and it was probably Professor Plum who was the last person to see the Colonel alive."

Clueso whirled around to stare at Professor Plum who choked on his cup of tea.

" I only talked to the man for five minutes, tried to calm him down. We smoked a pipe on the terrace then I came in and went to bed."

"You are 'ere as a guest Professor? What kind of Professor are you?"

"I'm an archaeologist Inspector, spent most of the last ten years in Mesopotamia, that's where I first met Mustard, nice fellow, but a bit long-winded."

"Ave you ever seen this before Professor?" Clueso waved an elaborately carved Silver dagger under the Professor's nose.

" I most certainly have. I found it on the Mesopotamian dig. It's at least three thousand years old. Where did you get it?" The Professor bristled.

"I pulled it from the chest of the Colonel Mustard." There was a communal gasp from the room.

"Why was it not in your possession Professor?"

"I'm sure it was locked in my suitcase. I'm going up to London to donate it to the British Museum along with some seals and beads."

"Did anyone else know you 'ad it in your room?"

"I don't think so, maybe the servants." The Professor mopped his brow with a large handkerchief, he looked flustered.

"Then I shall 'ave to arrest you on the charge of murder."

Just then Reeves arrived bringing more tea from the kitchen.

"He was in the Professor's room." said the Vicar who had just come in through the french windows
".....and he's the chap who was trying to poison me! I've been robbed as well."

There was chaos. The Vicar accosted Reeves. The Professor collapsed into an armchair. Russell grabbed Reeves as he tried to hit the Vicar and Clueso watched it all.

"I see it all now........... said Scarlett.
"The Butler Reeves stole the dagger from the Professor's suitcase to sell it. He had it on him when he came into the library. The Colonel who had just said 'Goodnight' to the Professor was still on the terrace. He saw Reeves with the dagger and pulled out his gun. He must have told Reeves that he knew he was a thief and was about to call the police when Reeves threw the dagger into the Colonel's chest!"

Clueso said. "Zhank you Miss Scarlett. I could not have expressed it better. I recognized ze Butler as a expert burglar I had arrested one time before zis. I also know he had made ze Vicar ill so he could enter the Vicarage and steal the valuable paintings there. Now he iz a murderer too."

The constables took Reeves away.

"Per 'aps we should make a partnership Miss Scarlett, you 'ave a flair for the work."

"You're most kind Inspector but I have another partnership in mind." Scarlett smiled as Russell put his arm around her waist. " I think I might have a flair for that too."

Friday, September 12, 2014

The Middle Section

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 Last week I had to write the first 500 words of a story.
This week I'm writing the middle section, another 500 words, to somebody else's story.
I'm following on with Ryanjamesblack's story 'The End of the World according to Bill, Gus and Harry.'
If this is confusing you, head over to and all will become clear.

I should add that Ryan's story is very different to my usual stuff, so it's been quite a challenge to try and do it justice:

The End of the World According to Bill, Gus, and Harry


Three men stand around a table.
They were seated a moment ago, but sit no longer because each of their chairs toppled as they leapt up and pulled out their guns.
Gus’s gun is a Heckler & Koch HK45 semi-automatic pistol that he scavenged out of a pawn shop display case. He has no idea how to use it. It’s pointing in the general direction of Bill’s head.
Bill’s gun is a .357 Magnum that in actuality is not a gun at all. It’s a movie prop. A replica. A rather poor one at that. Regardless of its realness, it’s pointing dead center at Harry’s chest.
Harry’s gun is not a gun at all. Not even a replica. It’s a hand grenade he dug out of the WWII display at his local history museum. It’s a real grenade, but unbeknownst to Harry, a dud. He’s waving it at Gus, the way a Priest might brandish a crucifix towards a vampire.
What’s got these three a-holes wound so tightly? Ready to kill?
Each of them blame the other for the end of the World.
Actually, the end of the human race, I suppose, is more accurate. The World remains. The Starbucks, the Wal-marts, the McDonalds, they’re all still there. Mossy, rank with rotten food, and chalked full of wildlife, but still there. It’s the people that are gone. POOF! All of them. All except for Bill, Gus, and Harry.
I know this because I did it.
I did it, but don’t misunderstand. I’m not responsible. No. One of them is responsible. Bill, Gus, or Harry. One of them summoned me.
Who am I? Well, I have lots of names. Leviathan the Dimension Devourer, the Merciless Void, the Infinite Gaping Pustule, the Fathomless Grotesque. The list goes on and on. You can just call me Levi.
Like the jeans.
Before I take us back to the Gassy Narwhal Pub & Eatery, to the Mexican stand-off between these giant turd sandwiches, let me explain, how in the big empty world, they managed to find each other.
Bill, Gus, and Harry each checked their email…

This is an automated message from Sir/Madam, your profile indicates that you are seeking a female, ages 21 – 45 as a friend/hook-up/mate. Regrettably, all 3,742,567 Soulmatch profiles save the following 3 have expired due to dormancy:
Gus, age 23 – “Whassup ladies? I don’t wanna brag, but a chick once told me if you fed George Clooney, Brad Pitt, some hair gel, and a can of orange paint through a wood chipper, I’d be what comes out the other end. She maced me, but it was totally a flirty kinda macing. Interested?”
Bill, age 37 – “My Mother’s making me do this”
Harry, age 52 – “Hello. I am a recent divorcee who is anxious to climb back up on the horse. Not that I’m saying you’re a horse. Whoever you are. I’m sure you’re extremely un-horse-like. Also, I didn’t mean to imply I’d be climbing up on you. Unless you want me to. Ha ha ha. Please inbox me. Please?”
Would you like to adjust your sexual preference?

That awkward email led to some awkward online chatter, which eventually led to their face-to- face-to-face sit down/stand up, which led to their weapons being shoved in said faces.
I’m not getting involved here.
I may be an all-powerful, interstellar deity, but I don’t actually know who’s responsible for summoning me any more than you. All I know, is one instant I was slumbering soundly outside space and time, the next I was gorging myself on an all you can eat buffet of human life force.
One of them did it. Ended the World.
Which means, strangely enough, that two of them are completely innocent. How did those two avoid my intergalactic digestive tract? Well, that’s a bit of a noodle scratcher also.
Bill, Gus, or Harry?
One of them did it. The question is, which one?
Let’s return to the Gassy Narwhal.
Harry’s finger just wormed its way into the grenade pin.
Gus has five and a half pounds of finger pressure on a six pound trigger, and he’s about to sneeze.
Bill has had to pee for the last four hours. He’s about to say something stupid.
Let’s see how this plays out.

------------------------------------------------------ Now for my bit--------------------------------------

Gus sneezes, he has an explosive sneeze, the kind that makes dogs bark and cats yowl. His finger pulls the trigger and absolutely nothing happens. It seems like Gus doesn't know you need to put bullets in first. The other two have dived to the floor but now they're embarrassed and get slowly to their feet. Bill speaks.
'Now I definitely gotta pee. Stay right there.'

He heads for the door, but it opens before he reaches it as the most incredible piece of Gorgeousness sashays into the bar. I can't imagine what the gormless trio think but this girl is a red-head, my favourite kind. Her hair cascades down over her shoulders, her breasts are capable of independent motion; she has a waist so small it's hardly there at all and hips that cry out for hands to grab hold of and pull towards you.

I'm generally sleepy after a meal but suddenly blood is racing through every vein in my body and every artery too, my heart is skipping around my chest and my hands tingle and shake.

The guys must be feeling something similar because they're transfixed apart from the drool running down Harry's chin.
'Hi fellas. Y'all got my email then?
She smiles then turns her gaze on me.
I don't recall invitin' you Sweetie, but you're welcome to the party. My name is Lilith. Now if any of you boys read your Bible lessons, that name'll mean something to you. Does it?'
Lilith's eyes pierce each man in turn.

'You were Adam's wife, weren't you?' Harry mumbles.

'Correction! That worthless piece of trash thought he was my husband.'
Her eyes turn molten gold.
'He was utterly contemptible and it was an insult to try and mate him to me.'

'You're awful pretty' says Bill, his eyes on stalks
'Have you come to meet me?'

'I certainly have Sugar.'
Lilith purrs and I can see a leopard's tail swaying below her skirt.
'And you other two Precious boys, of course.'

Harry and Gus preen and glare at Bill.

'Now why don't we go upstairs where we can be comfortable....and away from the big Slob by the bar.'
I know she means me and I'm stung by her dislike. I move to reproach her gently, but I'm frozen to the spot. I can only watch as Lilith shoos her pets up to the first floor.

Once she's left the room I try to follow, I can move now but only in real slow motion. It takes me ten minutes to make it to the upturned chairs. My progress is accompanied by the sound of creaking bed-springs and cries that may be blissful but sound more like agony. I start sweating. I realise Lilith is killing those poor guys. I don't know why I feel protective but I want to save them, although she certainly has a body worth dying for.

Now it's gone quiet. Are Gus, Bill and Harry dead? I can hear Lilith padding across the room overhead. She's headed for the stairs. I think she's coming for me.

Saturday, September 06, 2014

It was a dark and stormy night..........................

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This is the first 500 words of a story. The aim of this challenge is that somebody else will write the middle section, while a third person finishes it off.
This could be interesting:

It was a dark and stormy night, the night that I was born. My mother gave birth without help because the villagers thought her cursed and dangerous. My father was absent, as always when the moon was dark.
Next day as she slept, my father's servant came and slipped a bag of gold and jewels beneath her pillow; it wasn't a gift from my father, but Renwick had a soft heart and had been fond of my mother. He also left a note, I still have it. It simply says that my father had left for England and that he might see me when he returned, but he never came back. He came to a bad end near Whitby; the English having proved to be less cowardly than the good folk of Transylvania.
As soon as she could get out of bed my mother slipped away, with me wrapped close to her body. She travelled East because her people came from beyond the mountains. I think her people were gypsies because she was a raven-haired beauty with a fiery temper. We never found her family, but I don't think we'd have been welcome anyway.
The years of my childhood were years of constant travel; we'd stay a few months somewhere, my mother would prostitute herself to make money and sometimes she would sell a jewel. She never stayed long anywhere because she knew I would eventually give us away. I had my father's taste for blood and I would scream constantly until my needs were met.
When I was about ten years old we met an elderly monk travelling the same hills as us. we camped together and he talked all night with my mother. The next day instead of heading to the large town in the valley we accompanied the monk on his journey home.
At his monastery I was drugged and bound while my mother sobbed. When I awoke my mouth was pure agony. My lips were swollen and I had no teeth.
The monk came to see me.
'Your poor mother has suffered long for her sins. We have taken you so that she can be free to live with ordinary people. You will not see her again; however we will love and care for you. We will teach you how to live a good life.'
The first years were terrible. The monks diet was vegetarian, but it did me no good to scream or threaten. They would smile, pray and put me in solitary confinement for a day or two. The same cycle would repeat until I was willing to eat their food. I still do not like rice but I learned that it fills the belly. Discipline was strict but they didn't make me take part in their worship, instead I was allowed to read or draw. Some months later, as they knew I would, I asked to join them in the temple. I began to be a Buddhist.
A life of tranquil peace and study was mine until the day the armies came.

Wednesday, September 03, 2014

The Bewitching Chasm......title courtesy of Chuck Wendig

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 Another story written to a given title.


Rory had to get there. It seemed easy enough, the eruption was happening in a remote area, but it was on tv in the bar. The news said there were roadblocks to prevent anyone straying too close but the place was deserted apart from daily patrols of geologists.
The bartender said  'It's unsafe in the wild parts, especially for a foreigner.' Rory felt insulted, he wasn't foreign, he was English.
'Fuckin' cheek'. Rory like many of his kind, only felt patriotic when his nationality was attacked.

He'd sulked all the way along the national road, his hangover worsened by the bouncy springs on the bus. When the driver stopped and told him this was as close as he could get Rory was standing in the road looking at the tail-lights before he realised,
'This is the middle of fuckin' nowhere. Bastard!' he shouted at the disappearing vehicle.

'If this isn't the End of the World it's near enough.' Rory's heart sank as the alcoholic boost in courage leaked from his body. The road he stood on was single track. On one side there was nothing but bare hills, on the other there was a rocky convoluted coastline, no houses, no cafes, not even a petrol station.
He stood stock still, thumb out for a lift and waited; after twenty minutes without a single car or lorry passing he sighed and trudged off across the hills.
'I'll see a farm soon and they can tell me which way to go, maybe even gimme a lift on a tractor; they'll certainly have some food.' He'd passed on breakfast, knowing that he'd throw up if anything hit his quaking stomach.
Rory had to admit he was very much alone and it creeped him out.
'I can't even see any planes up there.' he yelled at the sky. Then he saw the plume, Rory didn't know that's what it was called, but in a clear blue sky a long tapering cloud that seemed to go down behind these endless hills had to be coming from a volcano. Rory had seen his fair share of disaster movies and things were beginning to add up.
'Course there's nobody here. Fuckin' idiot. ' he told himself 'they've all been evacuated. It's probably a sea of lava over there. I'd better get there quick before it all stops.'

The bet, so far as he remembered the details had gone thus: they'd been discussing which was more dangerous, a volcano erupting or a tsunami, when it all got personal.
'You are shit scared an' thass the truth.' Jamie had said to Rory.
'I ain't scared of any stupid mountain you Dick-head.'
'Well go out there ' Jamie pointed at the tv showing lava somewhere, 'and bring some of that stuff back then, because I think you're a bleedin' coward. You don't have no balls Carter, you never have had.'
At that point Rory had punched Jamie in the throat. The other lads had looked at him with a new respect, this was turning out to be a great stag do, nobody punched Jamie and lived to tell the tale, but there he was retching on the floor of the bar and little Rory Carter had put him down there.
'Well good mate.'
'That was a hell of a punch'.
' You was real tough there.'
The accolades petered out and Jamie sat up. Before he could scream 'No don't say it you Numpty' to himself Rory said.
'An I meant it about that volcano. I'll go there tomorrow and I'll bring back the evidence.'
'You're braver than me.'
Rory had been bought more beers, even Jamie had bought him a pint when he'd regained the power of speech and it was all bleedin' marvellous..........

Now he was trudging up this hill looking for a real exploding volcano and he was getting scared because he could hear it.
When he could eventually see over the crest of the hill, there was nothing but emptiness, that was the only word, the land was empty apart from the plume of dust and smoke that was coming straight out of the ground and roaring defiance at him. It was hard to tell how far it was away because there was a great plain spread out before him. The ground was dark grey and chocolate brown with streaks of yellow. It wasn't flat either, Rory could see large cracks, they all looked old because they were dirty, sort of dusty and dead. There was nothing growing anywhere around, no weeds, no grass, nothing.
 The area where the plume started was hidden by some grey mist rolling about and was also where the noise was coming from. It wasn't continuous noise, mostly there was a dull rumbling but there were occasional cracking and clapping sounds that hurt his ears. He stood and sucked it all in.

'This ain't a great place for a tourist trip, is it?' Rory asked of the scenery, ' but it's bloody amazing. I never knew there could be so much space.' Rory wished he had his dad with him so Rory could show him these wonders; his dad had been a sailor and often told Rory there was nothing so beautiful as the sea.
'I think I found somewhere that stands up to your seas Dad. Jamie an' the rest would hate it, no women, no football. I could go back and tell them what I saw but they wouldn't care, not really. I've got here tho' and this is all right innit?'
He took his mobile phone out of his pocket, snapped a photo and sent it to Jamie. Rory turned to go back over the hill, but he couldn't make himself walk away from the sights. He turned to look again.
'I come this fuckin' far an' I want to see this all for myself.' He started walking across the plain, black dust puffing up around his feet.
'Come on then! Call yourself a fuckin' volcano? You ain't as good as the big fellas are ye'z?'

It was an awesome sight even though it wasn't a proper volcano. There was a long line of little hillocks going away from him, most looked as if they'd been split open with an axe; from them enormous spurts of red lava rushed up into the air then splattered down and turned black. The black gobbets were spreading across the plain and they'd gone a long way from their source.
'I ain't gonna be able to get right up to it, coz my boots'll catch fire.' Rory reminded himself of the details of a favourite movie. 'In 'Dante's Peak' the hero drove across the lava, but that's not much help to me.'
He was feeling very hot. He'd opened his shirt as well as his jacket, but now he wound his scarf across his face because the air stank.
'Where would be a good place to pick up a pretty bit of lava, Rory lad ?' He was glad nobody could hear that he was talking to himself. He stopped and took stock of the situation. He was scared sure enough, but he was more mesmerised by these lava fountains and part of his mind was trying to work out the pressure it must take to push lava up so high. The vents must go down a long way too. He badly wanted to look down into those open chasms.
'I weren't bad at physics in school. I could work it out if I could measure the height properly, lava don't weigh much. It weighs less than water because it floats.' This nugget he'd also gleaned from movies.
Rory decided that if he went to his right where the lava wasn't so fresh he could find a cold bit. Walking cautiously, but as close as he dared Rory passed alongside the flow until he found an older section. Here the lava had cooled and broken into pieces at it's leading edge; bits were falling off and the upper surface was heavily crazed.
Here too was another person. A man was laying face down, he looked dead. Rory knelt down and turned him on his side. The man groaned.
'Shit. He's alive. Come on mate, wake up. It's not safe here.' The edge of the lava was steadily moving towards them. Rory grabbed the man's arm and pulled him across his own back. Then he got to his feet.
'You're no feather, are yez?' Rory struggled to make his feet move, they seemed too heavy to lift.
'Come on. We ain't going to die here, if I can help it.' His own words helped him to move and he lurched away from the lava flow.
It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, bets included. Rory's brain went on auto-pilot. He couldn't say afterwards how long he walked carrying the stranger or how far he got before he heard happy shouts.
'There he is'
'We've found him.'
'Stefan. Stefan.'
Other men appeared and Rory was relieved of his burden. He sank down on his heels, put his hands on the ground to steady himself and cried.

Back in Reykjavik hospital Rory was re-hydrated and his scratches tended by a pretty nurse. The Icelandic rescue men who'd taken him and the stranger to safety were there and Rory was making new friends.
'You were amazing to carry Stephan all that way.'
'It was so lucky you were there.'
'You saved his life.'
'Thank you guys, but I was stupid to have gone out there. I'm glad Stephan is getting better. Why was he there?'
'He's a geologist like some of us. The rest of us just love being out in the country.'
Rory nodded. 'Me too.'
Someone produced a bottle of vodka and toasts were drunk to Stephan and to Rory.
'Is there anything we can do for you to say thanks for Stephan's life?' said the owner of the vodka.

' Nah, I'm just so glad you came along when you did.
' But you could tell me how to find a place to live here. Oh and is it easy to get a job with you guys?'