A Brush fire warms but then too it kills.

The Gemenids were the highlight of '31.  The middle of December J-Bo in his pained reading rictus got through to the Prior: "There will be meteors.  A shower, even, a glorious show for those ain't got cable."

The Prior, by then wizened and intent mostly on the phantom pains emanating from the Roh Stump, nodded mechanically in the way he'd come to.  His eyes, yellow when they had a color to speak of were clear later when J-Bo dragged the Prior on top of the overpass.  Ragtag and toothless their neighbors oohed and like owls moved necks but not heads and a flipper babby wearing a Scarlett jumper made up-chuck.

J-Bo, in rolls and wrinkles like that babby, a thousand pounds heavier, looked longinly on his partner.  The prior said: "J-Bo, I declare our downfall, and the volcano that done swallowed CBus, and all my trials through gout and whatnot, up to and including the botched peener-surgery that tooked old Coach Tre hisself..."  The Prior studied his duct-tape loafer.  "Well, J, I say that the whole of that sufferin', all our travail, it's abound to be done in '32.  I feel the good times,  and I smell the iron blood of RichRod near.

Middle of January and the Prior and J-Bo were down to a rancid twizzler and a bouillon cube between them and cold starvation.  Before a flatscreen in a storefront, air raid horns all around but snuggled tight their dotted eyes saw RichRod and a press conference.  "He's close, Prior."  J-Bo cupped one of Prior's cheeks, and not since '09 had that glint he'd seen in the latter's eyes.

"Oh yes, he's close."  They kissed.



...to be continued...