Gregson felt the instinct in his gut, like Thai food he had not properly digested. Food fed his instinct, and without it, there was an emptiness plaguing him like all great enthusiasts waiting for joy— connoisseurs without wine, lovers without sex, artists without creation.

Tommy grabbed his stick, shifting down, and to the left. “We’re going weightless.”

It was an odd sensation for Gregson.

Mountains of ice described the war in the sky, as Tommy grabbed his shaft, and pulled up; it throbbed, shaking in his hands. They passed by a waterfall, flowing into the ocean, and the zero struck the river like a missile.

“They don’t build ’em the way they do now,” Tommy said. “This bird is a deep roller, but It’ll never hit the ground.”

Gregson held onto his lunch, like a child whose mother packed him something special. He didn’t want to give it up, despite gravity tossing his stomach.

“There’s the clinic,” Tommy said. “I wouldn’t stay there for all the drug money in Florida.”

“Why not?” Gregson asked.

“The feminine makes a man soft, and that island has a reputation.”

Gregson’s bounty had escaped an ex-wife to fall into the clutches of a cult of women? Gregson mentally prepare himself, focusing on his masculinity. Hemmingway came to mind.

Tommy eased up on his shaft, and the canary bird made her landing.

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