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Pastimes : Don't Ask Rambi

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To: Thomas C. White who wrote (8451)	3/3/1998 8:26:00 PM
From: Jacques Chitte	Read Replies (2) of 71178

The interior of the van was a grim place for a man used to sleeping under the stars. The walls were made of bare cold loud sheet metal, and the corrugated floor had large eyebolts sticking up at odd intervals from the low drifts of sharp filth. Bub had given up trying to lie down. He huddled in a corner, rejecting the pile of gray blankets disarrayed in the other one. They looked and smelled like enormous diapers which had been soiled and not laundered long ago. Bub racked his mind for a way to get out of this van. He could do it easily enough, but one of the goons up front had claimed his Casull as a trophy. The little weasel who looked like the miserable warlord of the swamp. Boy, Bub mused darkly, if Rambi hadn't already overcome her temporary fit of docility, he was going to fix Juan good. For the indirect murder of Drygulch. If there was a flavored coffee for a time like this, thought Bub, it probably fell out of some jungle marsupial's ass. The van hit a particularly nasty piece of road in the middle of the rut. Bub was thrown onto an eyebolt and swore softly and sulfurously.

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