I dreamt of blood upon the shore, of eyes that spoke of sin;
The lake was smooth and deep and black, as was her scented skin.
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| No binoculars. |
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| No motorcycle cop. I'll never find the crime scene now. |
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| No lucky dog vendor. |
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| No rada drummer. |
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| No artist. Not the end of the world I guess. |
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| No small boy. Irrelevant since even I could fit my arm in that gap. |
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| No sexy fortune teller. |
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| No junkie. Dead or otherwise. |
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| No spare priests robe. |
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| Secret passage is in here? |
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| or here? |
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| A sekey madoulé, and me without my tracking device. |
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| I wish Malia Gedde were permanently grafted to my thighs... |
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| The curator of the voodoo museum is an overweight white guy. He let Ken examine his snake without any fuss. Unlikely he did it... |
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| No beignet guy. |
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| No voodoo code. |
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| Or worst voodoo code ever... |
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| No hot black woman visiting her family tomb. |
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| At least the lucky dog guy is finally shifting his cart. |
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