A certain shakiness in your writer of pulp. Chapter Seventeen has been subjected to Potlatch. It wasn't a traditional Potlatch, there was no oohing and ahhing from a rapt audience, no paper hats, no recourse to Psalm 23, no pat on the back for the purity of the sacrifice, no wondering moment as oneness was achieved between earth and heaven. Just a sort sterile click followed by a plink during the rather beautiful springtime call of a White Throated Sparrow
However in a somewhat roundabout way your writer of pulp did learn that the
technical device he'd always referred to as an IPod is actually called an IPad.
Which means it is possible the Great One might have mysteriously smiled down. So
let's just all hope Cancun is Cancun and not somewhere like Tulsa or Chipping
Sodbury, because that truly would be a fist sighting of sheep. Either
way next Potlatch your writer of pulp will be calling upon professional wailers
to give the moment a little dignity.