Today is the 18th anniversary of the death of Hans Schlueter and the 4th anniversary of the death of Laura Prendergast neé Espinosa.
I’m sitting (as ever) in my library, sharing a large bottle of the finest Irish whiskey with Mr. Winston Ramsey. He flew out this morning, according to his time, and arrived in what is, technically speaking, yesterday for him. Fascinating, eh? The way the world works on oil is almost comparable to the way the brain works on alcohol.
Winston is a stocky man in his 60s, with a rather fine, grey beard and scarred eyes (both physically and emotionally). He wears a rather regal and worn-looking jacket vaguely in the style of formal military dress, though I cannot for the life of me think of an army whose formal dress consists of red with gold trim and tasseled shoulders.
He’s rambling on about the latest barely legal girl he’s been sleeping with. I personally don’t see what to brag about, since she’s a glorified prostitute (aka a “gold digger”), but I’d rather hear Winston brag about this than allow my mind to wander, as it has just now, on to the memory of the occasion on which I found child pornography among Winston’s possessions.
Now, I want to hit him, but I can’t. As much as the whiskey key and fiery hammer within me try to break our blood bond, it cannot be broken. We were both betrayed by Benjamin and neither of us is prepared to turn on the other, or, at least, that’s what I think.
Rest in peace, my love. Do not let the Tree Walker trouble you any further.
Hans, you were a good man. I’m sorry.