Hi! Yeah, that image really doesn’t make sense at all, given that this story is about a man with a bag. Or, let’s put it this way, the main character is trying to find a man with a bag. Okay? Anyway, it beat the hell out of this image!
Would you agree? Oh, I don’t know. Here’s the story: I wrote a short story for an anthology called A Bag of Dick’s. But I actually wrote two short stories. The one published in the anthology and this one. They actually reference each other. It’s weird. 🙂 Keep in mind that this has not been touched by an editor. And it’s kinda my first attempt at sharing something I’ve written that even approaches sci-fi. Anyway, see what you think: “Who’s Holding the Bag?” To: Absalon I hereby submit an updated report on Incident #4767. Per your request, I have included all relevant details related to the incident, as opposed to adding a simple update on the parts that had to be changed. As you know, my most recent reports have come from the Northeast Sector of North America of the planet Earth. Recently, I switched focus to the Northwest Sector, and frankly, in certain respects, this place is quite different from the Northeast Sector. It’s not that they don’t have crime or other disturbing incidents. It’s just different. The motivations are similar, but the execution can be a bit peculiar. In this case, the circumstances were unusual enough for me to make an error in judgment, for which I offer no excuses, but would like to set the record straight. I realize that earthlings are way too primitive to, individually or collectively, try to mess with my head or put one over on me. (See the addendum to the attached glossary for translation of the phrases “mess with my head” and “put one over on me.”) However, this case was particularly bizarre. Below I’ve summarized my findings, including the new information that’s come to light. As always, I’ve provided dates and times in Earth terms (sorry, but translating their time units to our planet’s hurts my head). On Friday, August 9, 2019, approximately 1200 hrs., at a place known as Spokane, Washington, in the United States of America, a male detective known as Morgan, a subject of great interest to me as an example of humans’ all-too-frequent choice of violence to solve problems, was observed having another such moment with a seemingly pathetic example of his species. Based on what I heard, they had a most interesting, if somewhat confusing, conversation. Apparently, Morgan wanted a male named Roy Utt—that’s the pathetic example I mentioned; his name is Roy Utt—to track down a seemingly random fellow who left what they call a “fast food joint” (at least in the Northeast USA—see attached glossary) with a Dick’s Hamburgers bag (Dick’s Hamburgers is the name of the fast food joint. Sorry to interrupt.) clutched to his chest, but after one look at Morgan, he reportedly took off like a light. You’ll have to forgive my occasional lapse into their lingo (I’ll get back to you on the niceties of defining “lingo”, when I update my glossary), which I’ve mostly picked up from watching their interesting TV shows and reading their fascinating books. If you’d seen Morgan operate when he’s in his usual mood, you’d run, too. I wondered if the random guy had heard about Morgan. Then again, he might have been double-parked or had fifty unpaid parking tickets. Maybe he was just starving and really wanted to get out of there and eat those burgers, which I’ve heard are absolutely fantastic. Plus the fries, which are (as they say) to die for. Not that I would eat those things. It’s just an observation. Spokane is the second-largest city by population within the borders of Washington. It’s only one-third the size of the biggest one. Not tiny, but small enough for word to travel fast. Disguised as an itinerant male worker, I happened to pass a particularly chummy group of folks huddled under a bridge, when I heard the rumors. Apparently, after this hapless fellow ran away, Morgan put some fast moves on Roy Utt. The kind of moves I witnessed in the alleyways and middle school locker rooms in that place called Brooklyn. Don’t get me started. As Utt was leaving, Morgan yelled for his attention loudly enough to make it a statewide alert. Apparently, Morgan was anxious to find the running guy—someone called “the mope”—and get his hands on the Dick’s bag. So he and Utt struck an odd bargain. One in which Utt somehow ended up ahead. Depending on his ability to deliver, of course. Utt wangled a deal out of Morgan, in which Utt gets a “get-out-of-jail-free card” if he brings Morgan the bag that the running guy carried. In addition, if Utt brings Morgan more than one bag, Utt gets an additional “card” for each one. Bear in mind, I learned all this from witnesses of uncertain capacity to observe, evaluate, and report accurate information. And there was so much speculation as to the contents of the bag, I started to wonder whether any of them had actually conveyed the true facts. In any event, I have sincere doubts about Morgan’s authority to issue these so-called cards. And I might’ve dismissed the whole thing as the usual case of blackmail and trickery on the part of police officers (well, frankly, all humans) to get the job done, but this struck me as a lousy deal for Morgan. At first, I figured he must be desperate to make a quota. You may recall my previous reports about why police officers are apparently required to nab a minimum number of alleged criminals within a month (or was it a quarter?), so refer to them as needed. Morgan seemed mighty interested in finding that bag, though. And he seemed fascinated with the running guy—who he was and whether Utt knew him. It seemed to provide a unique glimpse of earthling psychology. What could the bag contain that it provoked police interest in an otherwise unremarkable stranger? Was it just the fact that he ran? And how did Utt fit in? And was Utt going to cheat or come up with real evidence for Morgan? These questions pestered me. Based on the reports, I kept an ear to the ground. (Not literally. See addendum to attached glossary.) I also decided to look for Utt and the Man with the Dick’s Bag (hereafter referred to as “Random Guy”). I’d hit Dick’s to see if anyone there knew anything. (The word “hit” is another term that can be used in numerous ways. It’ll all be in my re-revised glossary.) At the time I finally decided to take action, I was in the midst of a walk, and an hour or so had passed since the incident at Dick’s. I needed to act fast if I hoped to get a clue there. The employees at Dick’s work in shifts, coming and going in stuttering waves. (Picture a typical waveform with occasional spikes.) Although I lack the complete use of our home planet’s technical capabilities, I’m not bound by any human-created legal or ethical constraints. And, at the moment, the technology exists here for me to triangulate either man’s phone (which I’m sure they carried with them, as all humans on this particular patch of earth do) and narrow down his possible location to within a few feet. Now I just needed a phone number. I ducked into a vacant church and adopted the appearance of a young woman—attractive, but not slutty (see attached image)—and proceeded to Dick’s. If Random Guy had called in his order, perhaps they could provide his number. Assuming he actually bought something from the place. I approached the establishment, which isn’t at all hard to find, given its slightly garish sign dating back to what the general population refers to as “the Sixties”. This is a reference to a celebrated period decades ago. You hear the most curious stories from the now-aging folks who lived during that time. They speak of it in almost hushed tones, as if it were some kind of magical dream. I’ve since dug into their archives and wonder if the old fogies hadn’t made half of it up. If the “spirit of the Sixties” (query: include in updated glossary?) was still alive, it was at Dick’s. I was sure everyone at Dick’s would be helpful and kind and give every indication of not being involved in some stranger’s scheme involving one of their bags. But you never know. However, in order to justify my interest, I needed a ruse. Humans don’t just go around asking for other folks’ phone numbers, unless they’re stalkers. Or maybe worse. I couldn’t risk being mistaken for one of those. I approached a cashier who stood toward the rear of the place, apparently on her break. I told her I was his ex-girlfriend and needed desperately to speak with him. I may have hinted at a possible pregnancy and need for financial support. The cashier, a cute female, with green hair and reddish-brown eyes, was really sympathetic. “I wish I could help you. But I just work the counter. And, even if I knew his number, I don’t think we’re allowed to give that out.” She began walking toward the work stations. I followed her and, adopting a forlorn expression, tried another tack. (See attached.) “Last I saw him, he was wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans. Longish hair.” I grazed my hand just over my shoulder, like he wore his hair in a bob. As I spoke, a male moved into my peripheral vision. A slight, swarthy man with a deep scar bisecting his left cheek, he seemed relatively benign. The woman’s mouth creased one side of her face, in a look I knew meant she thought I was stupid. “Do you know how many people I serve every day?” I shook my head, because I didn’t know. I hadn’t done a study on Dick’s or its customers. Taking my silence as permission to continue, she added, “Maybe you’re just new here, but almost everyone around here wears black.” She snorted a laugh and moved toward a closed register, then prepared to open it. A line was already forming. “Sorry. Got to get to work.” I’m not a mind-reader (that would be awesome), but I could tell at least one of those statements was a lie. “Hey.” The voice was male and came from the man who’d caught my attention earlier. I nodded. This was a typical human female not-too-friendly, but I-do-see-you motion I’d noticed women gave men who spoke to them without solicitation. He moved back into a shadowy corner and gestured for me to approach him. Since I could easily snap his neck, if it became absolutely necessary, I moved toward him at a reasonably steady pace. Once I was close enough for comfort, he leaned toward me. “I think I know who you’re looking for,” he muttered. We got to talking and here’s the low-down. (You know what to do.) At the time of the initial incident, the witness was here, waiting for a friend. He noticed the Random Guy arrive a few hours before the lunch crowd descended. He remembered him carrying a worn-looking paperback book with a half-naked blonde woman on the cover. Random Guy ordered a milkshake, a burger, and fries. As he waited for his food, he opened his book and read it. In fact, he became so engrossed in the reading, he didn’t hear when they called out his order. “After a couple of times, this guy finally just brought it out to him,” he said. I quizzed the subject further about which “guy” it could have been. The most distinguishing feature was a brightly-colored neck tattoo. Unfortunately, humans sporting such markings are as common around here as black shirts reportedly are. The guy with the tattoo who’d served Random Guy’s food stopped by his table before leaving the restaurant. They briefly spoke and shook hands. Random Guy wrapped his half-eaten burger in a napkin, stowed it in the bag, and dropped in an additional object. A small black cylinder. Bearing in mind that I was getting a second-hand account of someone who’d seen two strangers meet at a crowded venue, yet managed to recall so many details, I deduced that the man must be either paid to watch Random Guy or weirdly obsessed with him for reasons unknown. Or he was just lying. However, the particularity of his details gave what he said the ring of truth. The paperback book with a blonde woman on the cover? A small black cylinder? Why would he make all that up? What would he stand to gain by telling me such an elaborate lie? My source’s name was Joe Smith. Here’s the rest of our conversation, to the best of my recollection: Me: Do you have any idea why he ran away? Joe shook his head. Joe: Nope. Me: Do you know if he’s connected to a man named Roy Utt? Joe: Who? Rather than report every such conversation I had over the course of an hour, trust me when I say, each one sounded a lot like that. I finally came across someone willing to talk. A somewhat bedraggled man who hadn’t bathed in a while approached me and requested financial assistance. I agreed to the request, if he’d tell me what he knew about the Random Guy or Roy Utt. The man’s eyebrows formed a misshapen “S” as he cocked one of them. “Roy Utt? Whadda ya want with that pissant?” Further questioning of this subject added nothing to my knowledge of Random Guy or Roy Utt, with one exception. “Utt’s a loser,” he said. “You can ask Mom.” It didn’t seem appropriate to point out that a man who appeared homeless was calling someone else a loser. Briefly pondering whether this came under irony or horror, I forced myself back to my inquiries before my random thoughts derailed those efforts. “Where would I find Mom?” I asked. He didn’t know the address, but gave directions from where we stood and described the house and surrounding area in great detail. Mom also turned out to be Utt’s mother. “Just ask Mom.” The man smiled, revealing a missing molar and releasing an alcohol-soaked breath. “Everyone calls her Mom.” And so I went to see Utt’s mother or Mom. On this planet, there are times when two or three syllables are considered too many. Mom lives in what real estate agents call a “fixer-upper.” If I understand the use of that term, it seems that the house never quite achieved its alleged potential. Shrouded in darkness due to the heavy velvety drapes partially blocking the windows, Mom, a rather tired looking woman in her mid-50s, was visible enough in a shaft of filtered light to reveal the hard living etched into her face. “I worry about my boy,” she growled, after a long sip from a bottle labeled “Jack Daniels”. (I should mention that “Jack Daniels” is what they call a “brand name”, not the proper name of the bottle’s owner.) “Spends way too much time at CD’s Lounge.” This was my best lead, so far. My only lead, apart from my previous, seemingly reliable, source. “Where’s CD’s Lounge?” I asked her. By that time, she was taking another long drink of the beverage. When she finished, she smacked her lips and gave me an address. I proceeded to the location, a somewhat ramshackle place that seemed ready to collapse under its own weight, despite the endless sound waves created by loud music that pulsed through the walls. Random observation: I continue to be fascinated with the way earthlings tend to add music to a situation. I found a place to hide and adopted the look of an attractive human female, a little sluttier, this time. Then I entered the establishment. If I had expected heads to immediately snap around in my direction, I would've been disappointed. Instead what I got was a studiously casual glance from nearly every male in the room, as if they were collectively judging my outfit. Either my semi-slutty act was standard fare or CD’s attracted a substantial gay clientele. There were exactly two other women in the room. Other than me. (Pretending to be one, of course.) One of them could have been Mom’s twin, and the other was a skinny creature with skin so pale I could practically see through it. Not that I cared. It just seemed odd. If Mom’s twin was anything like Mom, I figured I’d start with the skinny woman. She appeared quite relaxed. So relaxed, I wondered if she was asleep. When I approached her, she suddenly snapped out of her apparent stupor. I introduced myself as Laura Flitcraft and laid the same story on her, except suggesting Utt might be the father. She had a laugh about that. Then, she said, “You must be joking.” I guess that’s why she laughed. Well, of course, I was lying, but I wasn’t joking. Doesn’t matter. I assured her of my desperate need to find the man. Shaking with laughter so hard, I thought she might propel herself off the bar stool, she said, “Roy Utt’s a hopeless loser. A junkie. And just plain stupid. If you really expect help from him, you’re in trouble.” “Could he be involved in a criminal enterprise?” The woman snorted. “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” I didn’t bother to answer. I couldn’t begin to speculate. She stopped talking, planted her forearm on the bar, and sagged her weight onto it. She appeared to be resting. So, I left the lounge (or bar or tavern or pool hall) and couldn’t help noticing two more women enter the place. They looked like a couple of office workers on vacation. Smooth faces and hands, brand name clothing, hair of generally acceptable color and style for the times. I thought about asking them why they were there, but feared this might lead to more inquiries that weren’t pertinent to the original incident. Although I did wonder why these average-looking women would want to go to CD’s, since the place not only smelled to high heaven, but was hardly conducive to most women in general. “Psst.” A sound like a snake spitting a talon on my right. I prepared to attack if necessary, but immediately relaxed (but not completely) upon seeing a young woman dressed like a skanky version of Jessica Jones. (See attached and updated report on “Cultural Developments”, under subheading of “Television”.) As with Joe Smith, I approached her at a reasonable pace. By the time I reached her, she was halfway through her first sentence. “Roy Utt is the world’s biggest asshole. But you want to find him?” she said. She scowled at me, and for a moment, I thought I might have stepped on her foot. “You wanna find Roy Utt? He knocked you up? Seriously?” She sneered. I paused for a very brief moment, thinking about which question to answer. If I’d answered truthfully, I probably would have said, “I suppose so. Not really. Are you kidding?” “Well, I could tell you where he is,” she continued. “So what’s it worth to you?” I had to think about that one, too. I’ll confess, I began to question the point of continuing these inquiries. Her expression crumpled. Sweat slipped down her forehead and cheeks. “Look,” she said. “Just a few bucks, okay? Just so I get my head right.” She needed to obtain drugs, and it was killing her one way or the other. And I felt so bad. That’s when I remembered why I was doing this. To observe human behavior ever since our species produced them. And suggest adjustments that might improve the human situation. I snapped out of it, gave her twenty bucks, and learned that Utt was living out of a car. The mobility factor concerned me, until I learned its wheels had been stolen. I gave her an extra twenty, along with a card listing the names, numbers, and email addresses of several Spokane-area charities helping out those that I call the Lost Ones. The homeless, the addicts, the insane, the disabled—I could go on. And let me assure you that I continue to follow our non-interference policy, as I am not providing the services. I am but one out of many who distribute the information. In return, she provided the location of the disabled vehicle in which Utt had taken up residence. The neighborhood could most charitably be described as nondescript. The car was a roughly used Ford Thunderbird, not the most recent of models. The small dirt lot where it sat was about 500 feet from a junkyard. This particular junkyard had a car crusher. I imagined that eliminated the need for an alarm clock. A peek inside the auto showed signs of habitation. A few threadbare articles of clothing, a couple of beat-up magazines, and a few personal odds and ends. No sign of a Dick’s bag. Or Utt himself. I peered at the contents of the vehicle, but couldn’t pick out any of Utt’s identifying information. Just to make sure that this was, in fact, Utt’s car, I used my phone to search the ownership records. But it was not Utt’s car. In fact, it was owned by someone named Lawrence Sellers. I wondered if Lawrence Sellers could be Random Guy. An Internet search on the name and its variations pulled up a few million hits, including several clearly irrelevant sources. Limiting it to the Spokane area narrowed it down to six-figures. “He’s not here.” A deep voice rumbled from my left. I turned and saw a dark monolith of a human male. A tall, black male wearing a stained T-shirt and shiny pants that sagged like those of a plumber at work. “No. He isn’t,” I said, changing course in word choices after I started to say, “No kidding.” Then, I added, “Do you have any idea where Utt is?” The man’s appearance changed slightly once he realized I wasn’t scared of him. I continue to be amazed at the advantage of surprise women can enjoy among the men around here. “Working his usual corner, I’d say.” The monolith then offered up directions to said corner. Utt wasn’t there. And, from what I’ve heard, he wouldn’t have been hard to pick out. I scanned the area for the Random Guy, but despite what the Dick’s cashier had suggested, not everyone in Spokane wore black T-shirts. At this point, I returned to Utt’s or Lawrence Sellers’ car or residence, where, much to my surprise, I found the two women I’d seen at CD’s Lounge. They were examining the car, so I snuck up quietly on them. I wanted to observe how human females of this sort dealt with a situation. I wondered what situation they thought they were dealing with. Perhaps, like me, they observed human behavior, in the hopes of improving it. They could be urban anthropologists. Or just stalkers. “Hello,” I said, causing the two of them to jump as if their feet had been zapped with an Altairian lasar gun. For a moment, they simply stared at me. “What are you doing here?” one of the women asked. She was in her early 40s, with short auburn hair and startling bright blue-green eyes. I thought about how to answer the question. The truth was a total non-starter. “I’m just taking a walk.” I smiled, to establish that I wouldn’t kill them. “Weren’t you two just at …?” I let them finish the sentence the way they wanted. “Yes, we were,” the other woman said. She was roughly the same age as her friend, but her hair was brown with purple and blue streaks at the ends. Her eyes were hazel and she wore glasses. “Now, what are you doing here?” “Is this about the guy with the Dick’s bag?” If it wasn’t, that should become obvious quickly. If it was, why not get it out in the open and be done with it? Both women peered at me. “What is up with that?” The one with the blue-green eyes asked. “Have you heard about the deal with the cops?” I nodded, as she continued to talk, careful to hide my surprise that they knew these things. These women must have sources. They could help me. The woman narrowed her blue-green eyes. “Something stinks about the situation.” I breathed a sigh. “It is odd,” I said. Thank goodness, I thought. They, too, seemed to be investigators. Or possibly journalists. Sharp, seemingly reliable. But not such a threat I’d need to worry about them. “Look,” I said. “Why don’t we work together to find that bag? Or Utt?” At that point, we put our heads together and devised a plan. We divided Spokane into quadrants, then eighths, and each of us took one-third of one of the eighths—with a focus on the less-desirable sections of town—where we would search and inquire with the residents as needed. If one of us found a lead, we were to text the others. We started with the half-quadrant we were in, which turned out to be a good idea. I took the north end, Andrea took the south end, and Sam took the piece in between. (Their full names are in their bios, which are attached.) As I wandered down one remarkably clean alley (You should see the ones in the Northeast Sector, I’m telling you. Sorry to interrupt again.), a huge, muscular shadow appeared on the ground before me and just to my right. “Yo,” I recognized the rumble of the walking monolith I’d seen at Utt’s immobile home. “Utt ain’t here.” I stopped and turned to look at him. He stuttered to a halt and reared back slightly. “So where is he?” I asked. “And why’s Utt living in Larry Sellers’ car?” (Larry’s short for Lawrence, just so you know.) “Who the hell are you?” At this point, the man advanced on me. I had no choice, but to execute defensive measures. In this case, a swift knee to the groin did the trick. He crumpled to the pavement, his face contorted, and his breath knocked out of him. With no one in sight and no obvious cameras, I twisted an arm behind his back and applied pressure. He issued a low-pitched grunt, then coughed and wheezed a bit. “I need to know where Utt is and if he has one or more bags.” When he’d finally recovered his breath, he said,“I don’t know, lady. Last I saw him, he was still looking for the bag.” He put great emphasis on the last two words. What the heck was so important about this bag? The Monolith Man seemed like he might know. “What’s in the bag?” The Monolith shook his head, causing his huge body to quiver slightly. “I have no idea,” he said. “But I think I know where he’ll look for it.” I let up on his arm, still cautious enough to keep my hands on it. “Where would that be?” I won’t describe in detail the somewhat complex way street drug distribution works, but will refer you to my copious notes on the subject in previous reports. The important part was that it involved the use of a “dead drop”, which is an inconspicuous place for spies, criminals, and others with secrets to deliver important physical objects for other spies/criminals/secret keepers. “Really?” I retrieved my phone. “And where is this dead drop?” After he told me, I arranged to meet Andrea and Sam by sending a text message or texting. (Refer, as needed, to notes about the tendency of nouns to become verbs and peculiarities of grammar.) We arranged to meet one block away from the dead drop location. Once we’d gathered, I nodded toward the corner of the low stone wall of variated gray stretched around the far side of the next intersection. “Keep an eye out as we approach. If it looks like trouble, we can stop. If not, let’s cross the street and look for the bag inside the dead drop.” “Yeah.” The one named Sam nodded. “Let’s just go for it.” She sounded impatient. From there, we crept up to the intersection. In this part of town, there were few pedestrians. In fact, the place would’ve appeared abandoned if there hadn’t been cars parked all over it. Unless you assumed the cars were also abandoned. This part of town is mainly populated by office workers, who seem to appear and disappear in shifts. “You see that?” Andrea said. She nodded toward the narrow, charcoal-colored patch in the lighter gray hues of the rock wall. “That’s it,” I said. No one was in sight. We hurried across the street and checked what turned out to be a deep crack between two stones due to a loss of mortar. The following is the information I failed to provide in my previous report. Contrary to my previous report that there was nothing inside the dead drop, I’d like to state for the record that there was, in fact, a bag in it. Just not a Dick’s bag. This bag had a completely different fast food joint name and logo on it. (See attached photo.) I pulled the bag out, but before I could open it, a black limousine appeared. It stopped at the curb beside us. I was ready to point out that it had parked way too close to the end of the intersection, when the back window rolled down. A woman with jet black hair and a face best-described as hawkish appeared in the window’s place. She seemed to assess us from behind a pair of dark sunglasses. “What are you doing here?” she said, in a voice that could create ice storms from a tropical breeze. I guess she was trying to impress us. Andrea and Sam seemed somewhat impressed. “We’re looking for Utt.” I didn’t ask about him. I just said it. It was a question without a question mark. My companions’ heads swiveled my way, their mouths agape. The black-haired woman reared back a bit. “Who?” she said. Her facial expression could best be described as contorted. “So he has nothing to do with a certain … bag?” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Like the one you’re holding?” From beneath her window sill, a handgun rose into view like a pistol-shaped moon, pointed at me. “Hand it over,” she added. I’m capable of many things, but will die if shot in the wrong body parts. So, I threw her the bag. She opened it up and looked inside. After rummaging through the contents with a vague look of distaste, she crumpled it shut and tossed it back. Then, she opened a fancy satchel covered with brown-and-beige hexagons, dropped the gun inside it, clipped the bag shut, and cast it off to the side. She lowered her dark glasses and gazed at me, her eyes like two bluish ball bearings. “I have no idea who Utt is. As for the bag, I’d forget about it.” “What’s going on?” Sam spoke up. The woman turned toward Sam, who fixed a gaze right back at her. “You.” She pointed at Sam. “Are you familiar with the CIA? The NSA?” No one said anything, because it seemed to be a rhetorical question. But then she snarled, “Well, are you familiar with them?” “Yes, of course.” “Sure.” “I think so.” (The last one was mine.) She nodded. “Well, so are we. And you lot should stay out of this.” Then, she smiled and tapped the half-lowered divider between her and the driver. “Let’s roll,” she said. Her window rose, and the limousine slithered away. Andrea said, “Sam? You catch the tags?” Sam nodded. “Yep. Diplomatic.” At that point, the two were disinclined to investigate further. Once again, I was left to my own devices. I wondered what could be in the bag that would cause a diplomat to have any business at a dead drop. Then, I finally took a look in the non-Dick’s bag. Nothing but dirty underwear. Given the circumstances, it seemed wiser not to allot further time into this inquiry. Respectfully submitted, Agent 7 PS: Please note my regrets at the waste of time, energy, and storage space expended on this particular incident. THE END Author’s PS: So … if you want to read the story about the two women, Andrea and Sam, you should check out this book! You're currently a free subscriber to Honest Indie Author. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
|
Who’s Holding the Bag?
06:15
0
