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April 15, 2013
“Have at, Timmonds!”

Now I’d done it. Big John Galoot, spoiling at fisticuffs in the parlor, circled about and windmilled in general drunken readiness, eying me.

“You cur! Take your medicine! I’ll knock you about, see if I don’t!”

I smiled. John missed Spain. We all did.

I was about to decline his invitation when I saw his face grow ashen, and he started, flummoxed. He saw them. These “Klingons” that occasionally vexed him. They with their Tesla pistols.

Galoot blinked, lowered his arms, and sank unevenly to the chaise longue, nearly flattening Mrs. Meowles, which leaped rugward to safety.