goodfella: (and kilmeny on earth)
Robin sits in the wrought-iron chair at a small table outside of one of Darrow's more decent, and more expensive, bistros. His club sandwich is so far untouched, and his coffee half-drained, but he is more interested in the moment in the newspaper he is reading than in eating his lunch.

Flipped to the plitics section, he scowls heartily at what he finds in the pages. "What I would not give," he mutters, "for Anthony Weiner's weiner. Not a Carlos Danger among them, from what I can see. Nothing like New York." He did appreciate that about the city's governor elections. It was always playing a game of picking the least insane insane person. "Trust fund kiddies just cutting their teeth on politics, and stagnant assholes on both sides of the line making their positions known. Just once, I would like to hear one of them take all sides of an argument. Have the fucking argument surrounded."

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Robin Goodfellow

June 2020

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