message for the rebellion part 2

Message From The Rebellion Part 2

Margarite behaved as if she had all the time in the world.  All of civilized Europe is on the fritz and she is enjoying her espresso with little thought to the magnitude of what she carried with her for her rebellion.  Or maybe she did understand.  Maybe, like me, she realized life is what it is going to be and that is all we can prepare for.  Whatever he method is she seems to be handling it quiet well.  It’s a shame the world has to be the way it is.  I’d prefer to leave her as she is and wish her the best.  But this cannot be.  We are in a position that doesn’t allow empathy.  Cut the snake off before it has a chance to fight back.

A young man walks up to Margarite.  He taps the table she sat at and she got up and followed him.  I give them some room.  I continue to drink my cafe.  I leave a couple of coins on the table and very casually stand and begin to follow.

A car comes whizzing down the narrow street, I move off the side hugging the wall as it comes to a screeching stop next to me, the man in the back seat raised a pistol, “Get in! Andiamo!”

The man in the back, slides over and lets me get in, the driver peels off in the same direction as Margarite and the man in the passenger seat trains his gun on me as well, “What seems to be the big idea?”

“No more following the pigeon.  We take you to Huston,” the little Italian man in the backseat replied.

The car lurched to a stop in front of a butchers shop.  The drive was quick, didn’t take more than a few minutes, “Get out,” the little rebellion officer shooed with his gun.

I stepped out of the rebellion vehicle and it took off again.  People from the butchers shop came outside.  One had his apron on and covered in blood tapping a cleaver on his shoulder.  The storefronts surround the shop started to open and the people came out to see the latest traitor to freedom, “Signore Huston arrivera presto!  Please coma in,” the butcher waved his cleaver as he walked into the shop.

Inside a couple of old men sat at a small table with knife and skewer and were eating some salumi and provolone.  They drank out of small glasses dark red wine, they didn’t look up, they continued to eat and drink and play cards.  One of them without looking my way, pushed a chair out.  I sat down, grabbed a knife and poked a piece of capicola…mmmm.  That is what I missed.  I haven’t had a good piece of capicola in a very long time.  Years.  The world is a cold place up north these days.

The bell to the door rung as the door opened, an old man, must be close to seventy shuffles his way into the room. Long white beard, gray suit, cigar, eye patch, and a nasty limp remedied by a walking stick, “You must be the watcher.”


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