Geaux Tigres? Si vou plait.


“That’s the answer,” I said. “What
was the question again?”
she asked me. “’What’s the most

pretentious title for a
poem you can think of?'”
“Oh.” “That’s the name of a

movie about a football
team in Ohio whose
legion of fans are nuts,

but it’s in French, so it makes
it more pretentious.” “All
you need is a ‘Fin’ in

there somewhere and you’ll be
set,” she said. “Oh indeed,”
I nodded, rubbing the scar

on my right middle finger
and absently gazing
out the window at a

cow, whose name was Victor – she
was running like crazy
with Kahn hot on her heels.

Er … hooves. One of those is right.
“Give me some milk or else!”
the mongol shrieked at the

terrified bovine. “Victor!
Get back here, you heifer!
And you,” he yelled, stopping

in his tracks and pointing a
bony finger my way.
“Stop spelling my name wrong,

asshole. You’re being a dick
and you’re doing it on
purpose! Knock it off, Jack!”

“How the fuck?” I said, blinking
in shock. “Is that your name?”
she asked. “Are you a Jack?”

I grinned and shook my head. “No,”
I said. “I’m the ace of…”
“Goddamn it, Victor!” Khan

yelled, interrupting me. Then
a shrill whistle sounded
and the woman just groaned.

“What’s it gonna be this time?”
she mumbled, avoiding
my hazel eyes once more.

“You’ve already passed up six
trains.” I shrugged. “You tell me.
Should I stay or should I…”


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