Respects to be Paid

Home, they say, is where the heart is. Seri­ous­ly, anoth­er cliché is not what I need right now. Although if by ‘heart’ they mean ‘over­worked organ thank­less­ly pump­ing out one’s life blood’ then maybe it is more spot on than most such folksy tripe. Cut my heart out and hand it to me on a bed of dis­ap­proval and dis­ap­point­ment: ah, feels like home already.

But appar­ent­ly the old lady wants all her brood gath­ered around one last time, and if I want to see a pen­ny of the loot that is sup­pos­ed­ly com­ing my way, I bet­ter clean up and head back to the home­land for a lit­tle death-bad grov­el­ing. Not my idea of a good time, but I sup­pose I have had worse jobs that paid far less.

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