The Duke lies still and dead on the edge of the road, his pink flamingo finery fluttering in the breeze. The Jester rolls to a stop in the loose, dusty gravel of the shoulder, then pedals away to the east. A string of purple beads glitters in the sun.
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Published by bjsmith
Author, writer, editor, cyclist, hiker, motorist, University of Iowa grad, and onetime soda jerk. View all posts by bjsmith