The past is a lit cigar, burning low, and billowing into oblivion. -Intellectual Shaman

Smoke rings were rising into the air, forming clouds on the ceiling. It was anyone’s guess what might rain down. The gentlemen were discussing history, and not very well. They typically shared advice on finance, but today they were arguing about the past.

“The CIA shot Kennedy, as sure as shooting!”

“Why would our own government kill its most popular leader?”

“For that very reason—someone who’s popular is difficult to control. When you have the mob on your side, special interests take a back seat.”

“Might I remind you that Kennedy was not that popular. Much of the South wanted him dead.”

“It was Castro, working with Oswald and the Soviets.”

“Speaking of Castro, how did you get these cigars? They’re Cubans, right?”

“Sure, they’re Cubans—more difficult to smuggle than Cocaine.”

“Well, how did you do it?”

“You need to be connected,” the voice said smugly.

“I can’t see the hand in front of my face. Why doesn’t someone open a window?”

“Where is the window?”

There was some shifting furniture. “Ouch!”

“I tripped over your leg!”

“That was a table leg, you idiot!”

“Who put this room in order?”

“If we can’t open a window, I’m going to suffocate.”

“Hold on, what’s this?”

“That window wasn’t there a moment ago.”

“I’m not sure I should open it.”

“If you don’t, I’ll die. My asthma is acting up again.” Whoosh. The smoke twisted like it was caught in a vortex, and the men in the room went out with the smoke.

To be continued…

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