Thursday, February 24, 2022

Raul and Me (Part 2 of 3 parts) blog post #538

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Best friends are reunited after several years. Will their renewed friendship blossom or wither under the pressure of careers, marriages, and fatherhood? Let’s see, shall we?





I didn’t know it at the time, but that reunion in my office six months back saved my marriage. That takes some explaining, because I’m not sure I understand the situation, myself. I got the first clue a month after he moved his family to Albuquerque. Karen eyed me over breakfast one morning.

“What?” I asked, instantly on the defensive. That seemed to be the way it was with us lately, one the aggressor and the other the defender… and the roles switched frequently. Frankly, it had been that way for at least a year. Last summer, things got so tense, she made a prolonged visit to her folks in Missouri. That separation brought both of us to our senses. I missed Karen and Susan terribly in those two weeks, becoming such a bear at the office, that my secretary threatened to quit.

When my two girls returned, things got better for a time. But the problem—whatever it was—had begun to creep back into the relationship. It wasn’t sexual. Karen and I were both good in bed. Our daughter? Well, Susan was the glue that kept our family a family. She was perky, daring, demanding, and a pain at times, but on the other hand, she was a five-year-old bundle of pure love.

In answer to my rather surly question, Karen put down her coffee cup and leveled a gaze at me. “What’s got into you lately. You seem much more relaxed. You’re about halfway pleasant to be around.”

Taken aback, I blinked. “I’m just me.”

“More like the me I remember meeting in college.”

I started to give a flip answer, but paused to consider. “I dunno,” I finally admitted. “I just feel… looser. More relaxed.”

Karen’s no dummy. She leveled a gaze. “It all started when Raul and Liz came to town.”

Denial died. I nodded. “Guess it did, didn’t it?” I smiled. “Good having my buddy back again. We grew up together, you know.”

“Yes, I know. I can see why you like him. He’s a great guy. And I just love Liz and the boys.”

A warm feeling swept me. “Yeah, it’s good having him back. Even better that the families get along. I think Susan about halfway thinks Dirk and Rico are her brothers.”

Karen reached out and grasped my hand. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

It shook me that it was a serious question. I placed my other hand over hers. “Absolutely. We’re going to be fine.”

And things were for a time. Then I found myself wrestling with a vague unease, a tenseness, a dissatisfaction I neither understood nor could explain. I was restless. Something gnawed at my vitals, something I could give neither name nor form. The only time I could find relief was when Raul and I had a beer at the bar after work on occasion, or when one family visited the other for a dinner or a game of doubles tennis.

I finally began to come to grips with the problem one evening when Raul and I were sitting at a table in the Sportsman, a neighborhood bar we’d adopted as our own. After a draw on his draft, he leveled his gaze at me.

“Man, you don’t know how much I look forward to our bar nights.”

I think my eyebrows disappeared into my hairline. “You do? Man, these are lifesavers for me.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“You’re my pressure valve, Raul. Always have been. Don’t you remember back in school how you could calm me down when nobody else could?”

He smiled. “That was mutual. You’ve saved me from my Latin temperament more times than I can count.”

“We were a good team, weren’t we?”

He reached over and clasped my arm on the table for a moment. “The best. We complement one another better’n most buds, you know.”

“Yeah,” I said. “We do. Always have. Didn’t think I was gonna survive when your folks moved away.”

“Me, neither. I almost went off the rail. Got in with some bad dudes. Know how my mom brought me back to reality? She always said, what would Rick think of your new friends.”

“And that was enough?”

He nodded. “That was enough.”

A little silence grew as he drew patterns with his fingertips on the table and I studied my best friend.

“Ra,” I said, reverting to my childhood pet name for him. “Time to level. Are you happy? Marriage solid?”

He was quiet as a slow smile built on his handsome lips. “Yeah. I am happy, especially since we came back to Albuquerque. Before that, things weren’t good between Liz and me. I love her, man, but I wasn’t handling things well.”

“Did you stray?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Almost a couple of times, but I kept it in my pants. Just ended up flirting. You?”

“Naw. Never even thought about cheating. But my marriage had started to have problems. That seven-year itch thing, I guess. Like you say, I love my wife, but sometimes—”

“Sometimes you want something else.”

His words hit me where it counted. “Yeah, that’s it. Something else. Something different.”

He studied the tabletop for a long second. “Rick, do you ever think about what we did when we were in the tenth grade?”

I swallowed hard. “All the time.”



It looks as if those suppressed feelings are roaring back, threatening to swamp Rick and Raul. How will this rediscovery affect their lives, their families, their very beings? Next time, we’ll have answers to everything.


Until next week.


Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!


A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:


My personal links:




Twitter: @dontravis3


See you next Thursday.




New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, February 17, 2022

Raul and Me (Part 1 of 3 parts) blog post #537

 Image courtesy of


I got everything straightened up after last week’s near disaster, thanks to my good friend Larry. Google decided it wanted to change things all around, so I lost all of my links. For a brief time, I couldn’t even retrieve my blog. But all’s well now… until the next time it’s not.

 Today, we’ll start a three-part story that might resonate with some of you. Without further ado, let’s look at Part 1.




From my seat on a hard stone bench, I watched Raul Eparta enter the park and took stock of him as he approached in a long, macho stride. Despite the name, he didn’t look particularly ethnic. Too much of his Anglo mother in him for that. Oh, his curly hair was black as the dark side of the moon, and the big, soulful eyes were like muddy coffee, but it ended there. He had his mother’s pert nose and lush lips. And all those features knit well together, making him the most handsome man I’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.

Back in the day, we’d been neighbors on Colorado Street NE, gone to grade and high school together, been BFFs before there were BFFs. Buddies, we called it. Pals. Brothers. Think Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patrocus. For years, when you saw Raul Eparta, you also saw Rick Shambless. Cocoa and Cream, one would-be wit labeled us.

Fair enough. I was a golden blond at the time, although my hair has darkened over the years to what some would call dirty-blond. My green eyes contrasted nicely with Raul’s brown. My nose had more of a roman curve, but of course, none of that was important. What counted was that we were inseparable. If someone knew Raul’s opinion on a topic, he also knew Rick’s.

When we were sixteen, we experimented. Nothing more than jerking off with one another, but when girls showed up on our radar—his before mine—that came to a halt. I remember that at the time, I grew insanely jealous of his first girlfriend and was unable to understand why he gave her so much of what had once been my time. Then I passed through the phase and became bewitched with my own female relationships. Now, I remember the transition between exclusive buddies to good friends more fondly. In a sense, our friendship was strengthened. Double dating or talking about dates brought their own sense of sexuality. A more socially acceptable one.

His folks moving north during our senior year was a personal disaster for me, an ordeal that took a great deal of effort to overcome… for both of us. While it’s only sixty miles from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, it’s a big sixty miles. We managed to see one another a few times and renew a flagging relationship. In fact, those few hours snatched whenever we could manage were even sweeter, our banter more fulfilling. I got a kick out of learning about new girlfriends, as did he. But, of course, when we went back to our respective homes, the wrench went deeper than I ever imagined. We were close, man… close.

During our college years, the friendship almost died. I stayed home and went to UNM, but he chose the University of Colorado. Phone calls gave way to emails and text messages to mere intermittent contact. As I got serious about a young brunette named Karen, who became my bride in my final year at the U, contact with Raul virtually died. I did get one text message saying he’d gotten married and taken a job at an architectural firm in Denver. I later followed it with a message I’d started my own bookkeeping business and become the father of a golden-haired daughter. He trumped me with a message of two children, both boys.

About a year ago, my secretary surprised me by telling me there was a man named Raul Eparta in the waiting room asking for me. My heart took a leap, and I practically ran over her getting to the door. And sure enough, there stood my childhood buddy grinning at me, delight and affection written plainly on those handsome features. And I do mean handsome. He’d matured into a man of indescribable physical beauty. And while I worked hard at tennis and a daily workout routine, I wondered how he saw me.

“Hey, bro,” he said, brushing my hand away and sweeping me into a man-hug.

“My God,” I whispered in his ear, “it’s good to see you. What are you doing here?”

He held me at arm’s length, those dark eyes sweeping me and registering approval. “Took a position with Arnold Architect, downtown. I’m back in Albuquerque, guy.”



Best friends reunited. Can you imagine the feelings… the emotions… running through Raul and Rick at that moment? Of course, you can. We’ve all lost and then found buddies before. I know that I can feel their reunion intensely. Hopefully so can you.

 How does it go from here? Will they be able to recapture childhood feelings, or will time and maturity and marriages and fatherhood have changed things so this pleasure is merely momentary? We’ll learn a few of the answers net Thursday.

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, February 10, 2022

Sterling Silver Scissors, A Guest Post blog post #536

Image courtesy of

Guys, I’m in the middle of a technical crisis. Google’s gone haywire on me, and I had a hell of a time finding access to my blog. Found it by accident, so was able to post for this week. Still going to take a lot of time to recreate some paths from here to there, so cross your fingers for next week.

 In the meantime, I lost so much time working on the problem I was relieved when my pal Mark Wildyr discovered our mutual friend Donald T. Morgan was a short story writer. Donald agreed to save my bacon by guest posting this week. His story follows:



By Donald Travis Morgan

The sterling silver scissors reflected ambient light as they lay beside the inert body. The six-inch tangs had penetrated Oliver Swinson’s torso between the fourth and fifth ribs. Swinson, himself, lay sprawled across the Persian carpet in his opulent study. He’d been attractive and kept himself fit. Given the diamond ring on his right hand and his surroundings, he’d died a wealthy man.

A teak cabinet in the far corner caught my eye, and I walked over to examine the numerous pieces of very good origami it contained. You can never tell about these things, but the corpse didn’t look to be a man given to fashioning pieces of paper into art. Perhaps the scissors put the lie to that supposition.

My sergeant, a seasoned vet named Monroe, had arrived before I did. Now he cleared his throat. “The vic’s a back-east financier who recently retired out here. Can you believe that? Retired, and he can’t be past forty or forty-five. His nephew, a kid named Binky, found him this morning. The only other people in the house were William Halston, who’s visiting from back east; Mary Blane, the housekeeper; and Joseph Blane, the butler.”

“Okay, let’s go talk to them.”

The four people gathered in the living room had arranged themselves according to social status. Halston, a haughty man in his middle thirties, perched on the divan. The eighteen-year-old nephew slouched in a recliner. A pile of reddish-brown knitting yarn beside him morphed into a shaggy dog when he momentarily lifted his head as I entered. Mary Blane, as broad as she was tall, stood against the back wall. Her husband, a cadaverous shadow, hovered at her elbow

“My name’s Detective Williams. The sergeant has taken your statements, but I have a few questions.” I glanced down at the nephew. “Do you use the study often? Nice origami, by the way. Yours or Mr. Swinson’s?”

The youth showed a little animation before slipping back into nonchalance. “Thanks. Yeah, it’s mine. As to the study, uh-uh. By invitation only. The place was UO’s private reserve.” The kid hovered somewhere between handsome and pretty, but that studied indifference detracted from his image.

“UO?” I asked.

“Uncle Oliver.”

I asked the two servants, Mary and Joseph Blane, to join the Sergeant and me in the dining area and ascertained their movements last night. After they were finished at the house, they visited a married son and spent the evening playing with their grandchildren. Not a perfect alibi covering all the hours in question, but for the life of me I couldn’t see a motive for either of them. Nonetheless, better to reserve judgment until the picture was clearer. I mentally moved them to the “B List” of suspects and permitted them to retreat to the kitchen.

The medical examiner and his people arrived, and I spent a few minutes with them. Far too early for them to give me much definitive information, but they were able to estimate a time of death. Probably somewhere around two in the morning. Hmmm… the Blanes had returned by that time.

The sergeant and I went back to the living room where the houseguest and the nephew had apparently not moved a muscle since we left them.

“Hand me that ash tray on the coffee table, please.”

Managing to look bored, the nephew asked as he passed over the Baccarat crystal. “Why did you want that? Was UO bashed over the head or something?”

“No, but I confess to an interest in excellent crystal pieces. It’s quite good, you know.”

“UO only had the best,” he replied.

“Apparently,” I said as I handed it back to him. “You are his nephew?”

“Yes… sir.” The “sir came out grudgingly.

“And your name?”

“Horton Maysfield, but everybody calls me Binky.”

I resisted the urge to ask the source of the nickname, but that was likely one question that did not need answering. “I understand you found the body.”

“Yeah. He’s usually up before I am, so when I came down, and Mary told me he hadn’t showed up for breakfast, I went back upstairs looking for him.”

“Where is your bedroom?”

“Right next to his. But the walls are pretty thick, and I can’t hear him when he’s in his room.”

“So you went to the study?”

“That’s where he spent most of his time, so yeah, I went to the study. Found him laid out on the floor with those bloody scissors lying beside him.”

“Did you touch them?”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“Did you touch the body?”

Well… year, I shook him, you know to see if he would move. Then I felt to see if I could find a pulse or whatever. But he was a goner.”

“And then…?”

“And then I let out a yell and the Blanes showed up. A minute later, Mr. Halston got here.”

“Who called the police?”

“Mary dialed 911,” Halston said.

I gave my attention to him. He had likely been presentable in his younger years, but he’d allowed himself to run to fat. At least in the belly. Seemed cultured, bright, and civil. “Mr. Halston, what’s the purpose of your visit?” I asked.

“Purely social. Oliver and I go back a long way.”

“How long back?”

“Oh, ten years I met him my senior year at Columbia University when he came on campus looking for recruits for his brokerage. He hired me. Worked together until he retired and moved out here to the west. Then sporadic contact, at best.”

“And what prompted your visit at this time?”

“He surprised me with a phone call and an invitation. As I had some business in Los Angeles, I agreed to stop over on the way back to New York.”

I considered his voice and cadence a moment, after which I questioned the boy in the study while the sergeant took Halston’s statement in the dining area. Separately, they each sketched out the previous evening and night’s activities. Once those statements were taken, we thanked the two of them, and they left for other parts of the house. Halston headed for the stairway. Binky rose and gracefully took his leave, the multi-hued dog plodding along in his wake.

“What do you think?” Munroe asked.

“I know what happened.”

The sergeant’s eyes widened.

“Did you notice the kid handed me this ash tray with his left hand?”


“Need to confirm it with the technicians, but I’m betting those scissors that did in the victim are left-handed.”

“They have left-handed scissors?”

“Sure. Each scissor—and it takes two to make a pair—is asymmetric. That’s because human hands are asymmetric. Left-handed scissors are constructed to accommodate this phenomenon. I’ll wager that pair belongs to Binky. He uses them to prepare paper for his origami art.”

“Just because they’re his doesn’t mean he’s the one who used them to kill his uncle?”

“Binky probably wasn’t Swinson’s nephew. He was his ‘boy.’”

“And he just up and killed his sugar daddy?”

“He did after Uncle Oliver passed him over to Halston last night. Halston was probably one of Swinson’s boys before he got too old.”

“You’ll play hell proving that… unless there are fingerprints on the scissors.”

“Oh, I doubt there will be. That’s why they weren’t still sticking in the man’s chest. Binky had to take them out to wipe his fingerprints off. Then he dropped them beside the body. I doubt it was pre-planned. Probably a moment of rage. My impression is the kid’s too spoiled for his own good… and apparently UO’s too. And he doesn’t strike me as a tower of strength. He’ll break. All we have to do is handle him right.


Well, there you are. I’m left-handed, so I knew (from bitter experience) there are lefty scissors. Did you? At any rate, I hope you enjoyed Donald’s story. Let me know, so I can pass it on to him.

 Thanks, Donald, for helping me out in a pinch.

Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, February 3, 2022

Baud Youngfellow (Part Three of Three Parts) blog post #535

 Image courtesy of Joom


Tod’s a goner, isn’t he? Head over heels in love with the dreamiest fellow he’s ever laid eyes on. So how’s he going to handle it? Or is it even something he can handle? Read on and find out.




Baud proved to be such a great guy to work with that I almost regretted having carnal designs on him. Almost. He didn’t put up with slacking or carelessness on the job, but that didn’t matter. I was so anxious to please this guy I earned compliments most of the time. It wasn’t long before he made me feel like a buddy… a special pal.

We didn’t socialize, like run around together, but I got an occasional invitation to stay afterward and sit on the porch with a glass of tea or a soda. I wouldn’t have minded one of the beers he kept in the fridge, but he didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. When he discovered I played chess, our socializing expanded a bit. I went over most Saturday mornings, not to work, but to play chess. Then we started tossing the football around or trying to burn one another’s hands off by hard throwing a baseball. Yeah, I was a special bud. I’d made it to that stage, but hadn’t figured out how to take it to the next.

Then one Saturday morning, he cut our time together short.

“Gonna have to quit early,” he said. “Myra’s coming over to cook me a dinner.”

My heart plunged.

He leaned in and winked at me. “You know how it is, you gotta pay them some attention or the whole neighborhood talks.”

My heart came right back up again, and I beamed. “I know.”

“You have a steady girl?” he asked.

Time to show him I wasn’t a kid. “Naw. Love ’em and leave ’em, that’s me.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said with a grin. “I better head off to the shower now.”

Gee, I needed a shower too. Wonder if he’d let me use his… at the same time he was in it? My britches filled out a little in the front at that thought.

I peddled home assessing the situation. He remembered my name from the first time I’d met him. Who does that? Someone who’s interested in remembering, that’s who.

He came to me to offer a job, I didn’t go to him. And at the same time, he’d called me a man. Great.

As my employer, he paid very well. Maybe a tad too well, like he really wanted me to hang around.

We sought one another’s company after work and on Saturday mornings. He was older’n me, and could have bummed around with somebody his own age, but no—he picked me.

He was not only a great guy, but he was touchy-feely too. He was always laying a hand on my shoulder, and boy, did that feel good. Got so I did the same thing. When I walked over to ask him a question, I’d put my hand on his shoulder. And he didn’t shrug it off.

And after the weather warned a bit, I’d asked him if he minded if I shucked my shirt to work, he’d said that was a good idea and stripped his off, just about causing me to swoon. I really liked putting my hand on his shoulder and touching naked flesh.

Not only that, but when he’d been explaining something to me about the job—we were working in the dining room now—he’d laid his arm across my shoulders. My knees sagged a little at his touch, but I recovered. Of course, he removed it after a minute, but it was long enough to make my britches bloom. And I’m pretty sure he saw my condition before I turned away.

Damnation! Why did I turn away? That had been my opportunity, and I’d blown it. The word “blown” just about caused me to pedal off into a ditch, but I recovered at the last minute. I made it home without disaster striking, and hopped into the shower. The mental image of Baude in his shower, soaping up and enjoying the feel of water sluicing off his naked flesh put me back in a condition. One I took care of with those delicious mind pictures playing before my eyes. I groaned so loud at the end I was afraid Mom heard me from the kitchen. As I was gasping and recovering from my efforts, I resolved to bring things to a head the next time I saw Baud. Crap, that wouldn’t be until Monday. Wonder if he’d mind if I came over Sunday afternoon.

Naw. We were buds. He wouldn’t mind that. That’s what I’d do after church… and ruin all the preacher’s good works of the morning. I snickered at the thought.


Sticking to my determination, I grabbed the bike and pedaled over to Baud’s, rehearsing how I was going to approach things.

Hey man, you’re sexy as hell, and I get a hard-on every time I see you. I’m tired of jerking off in the shower. How about we get it on.

Naw. Too crude. Needed to be suave… you know, like a man.

Hey, guy, you get my pheromones in an uproar. Let’s go upstairs to the bedroom.

Well, the “pheromone” part was sophisticated enough, but it still wasn’t right.

And so it went until I arrived at his house, still without the right approach. Have to play it by ear. Maybe he’d give me an opening… or proposition me!

He took a long time answering the door, and when he did, he about bowled me over. All he had on were his trousers. His hair, tousled, bare chested, barefooted. The sexiest I’d ever seen him. Even the bare feet.

He ran a hand through his hair. Wow! Talk about manly. “Hi, Tod, what’s up.”

I played it cool. “Wasn’t doing anything, so thought I’d come over to play a game of chess… or something.” I kinda bore down on the “… or something.” Would that be enough?

He kinda glanced behind him for a second. “Sorry, guy. I’m otherwise occupied.”


Then I heard the last thing I wanted to hear. A voice calling from upstairs. A female voice. Pretty sure it was Elena Garcia’s voice. “Who is it, Baud?”

He turned and yelled. “Friend of mine. I’ll be up in a minute.” He faced me again and smiled. “Sorry about that. Maybe we can get in a game after we finish work tomorrow.”

I don’t know what my expression was at the moment, but I’d probably let my feelings show. At the very least, I blushed. “Sure. Shoulda called first. Sorry.”

That bicycle ride back to the house was the longest ride I’d ever made. For some reason, my legs were so exhausted I had trouble pedaling.


I seriously considered not going to work the next morning. Don’t know if I was more disappointed or more embarrassed. But there was plenty of both, I can tell you. In the end, I rode over, and the ride was sure shorter than the one home yesterday. I got there before I wanted.

Baud walked out of the house as I came up the steps and tossed me a Coke. “Let’s talk.” He planted his fascinating butt on the top step. I flopped beside him. He took a drink of his own soda—he preferred Dr. Pepper—and set the bottle on the steps between his legs. He acted uncertain for a minute. Was he going to fire me? Tell me to buzz off?

“Tod with one d,” he started in a halfway joking way. “I think I misled you.” He faced me and speared me with those tiger’s eyes. “Do you know why I hired you?”

I swallowed hard. “Uh-uh.”

“To explain, I have to tell you a story. I grew up in a house with my mother and father and my brother. My younger brother. His name was Steven. I was five years old when he was born, and I resented the hell out of him. It was a drag having him around. As a baby, when he cried, he got all the attention. When he was up and walking, he followed me everywhere. Pissed me to no end. “

Baud stretched his legs and let them dangle down the steps. “But you know what? When I was thirteen, I came down with the measles. A bad case of them. My mom told him to stay away from me or else he’d catch them too. But every night, he’d sneak into my room and crawl up in bed with me. When Mom or Dad caught him, they’d scold him. You know what he said?”

I shook my head.

“I’d rather have the measles than stay away from Baudy. That was his name for me. Can you imagine that? Well, he got them all right, in spades. After that, he had a brother, not a brat who always tried to shoo him off. We got close. Real close. Like brothers oughta be.”

“What happened?” I asked.

He looked at me with a strange look in his eyes. “He died when I was eighteen. Went on a hike with some friends. They were climbing a bluff when part of it gave away. He didn’t fall all that far, but he hit a rock at the base of the cliff… and died.”

“Geez, I’m sorry, Baud.”

“I decided to stay in La Rosa the moment I saw you standing at the side of the Bentley the day I first arrived. I saw Stevie. Or someone who resembled him enough to let me pretend it was him.”

I swallowed hard, gulped aloud, probably.

“And when we started working together, the bond became stronger. You’re a good guy, Tod, just like he was. You’re pleasant and likeable and handsome.  Just like Stevie. So I took a great deal of pleasure in your company and started treating you like I treated my brother. And… and….” He fell silent and studied the half-empty coke bottle between his legs. “And I misled you. Made you think my interest was something else.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.” I screwed up the courage to ask, “How…how’d you know.”

“Man, it was written all over your face when Elena called out. Not your fault. Mine. I saw it happening but didn’t know how to stop it without just cutting you loose, and I didn’t wanta do that.” He shrugged before taking a slug of his drink. “I shoulda just had this talk with you so you’d understand. Sorry.”

“Me too.”

He slapped a leg and looked at me. “So are we all right now?”

“Yeah, all right,” I lied.

Well, maybe I hadn’t actually lied. I’d always wanted an older brother.


C’est la vie! Or as they say around here, ¡Por así es la vida! How about it? Can Tod with one d accept Baud as a brother rather than a lover? My personal opinion is that his shower is going to continue to get some action until he finds someone of his own.

 Until next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

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