After the gate fell five minutes
gone, the mob got in the garage,
sitting in the old cars, the man’s
pride and joy. Now they are
in the house, necking vintages
from the years of hubris. They
drag with them the bloodied
mercenaries, their bought defiance
gone in defeat. The question in
every mouth: where is he?
For the reckoning time is come.
In the panic room, the man and
his wife look at one another; she
keening as the air conditioning hums.
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