Cigar smoke filled the night air; a chill ran down the spine of Cal Jones.
His righthand gunman came over to him then. Cal noticed a bit of blood on his shoes; the job had been done.
"He swimming?" Cal asked.
The gunman took a flask from his inner coat pocket, took a swig from it, and offered it to Cal. "He's drowning."
Cal accepted the flask, and took a swig. "All according to plan."
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Book 4
Poetryhello again! another poetry book - number four, to be exact. if you've been here a while, you know the drill: there's no order to this thing, and after 100 poems or writing pieces, there's gonna be a new book. about the cover: it was a Thursday at S...
