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Transported by the web of his own reminiscences, Wayne happens to glance back toward his audience to find him in absentia, so to say, as the reefer rig (refrigerated, that is), presumably (some might say allegedly) burgeoning with frozen cattle carcasses, hurtles ever onward down the northeastern coastal highway of Ruma, unabated, unguided, with no helmsman at the helm, I say. Such is the nature of the storyteller’s craft, that the present setting may seem to dissolve away as the tale being told is envisioned, imagined and evoked in the mind’s eye, perhaps to the accompaniment of a harpist’s fleet fingering and an editor’s wavy blur effect; yet, lest my readers give this otherworldly tale too loose a leash, I hasten to note in these here textual blatherings that the traffic laws of Sil are much the same as the ones that we know in our own world, so something amiss is afoot, something askew is about, and so on, alliteratively speaking. Indeed, with the appearance of not one but two fresh mugs of merkur (prescription hyperconcetrate espresso), we might surmise that the good Mr. Sepulveda’s unquenchable thirst done asserted itself.

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