with illustrations by George Fleming and Dick Allen
On a rainstorm washed Saturday morning in the Cantina Bandit stormed down the stairs. “Margaret, where the fuck are you?”
Margaret stocked the Bar every Saturday morning like clockwork, but orders faded. Bandit wasn’t buying as much booze recently.
The bar still filled up, but booze prices hadn’t subsided since Covid. “Yes boss, what’s up?” she said in her usual cheerful voice. Her smile and sparkling eyes would rescue a sinking ship.
“Fuck,” Bandit said. “The bastards doubled our rent.”