mid evening.

It's that time. It's the time when I begin to admit that my stomach is upset. The acrid smoke of the clueless pyroculinary neighborhood watch has passed. He's moved from lighter fluid to pork tenderloin, sizzling up here in puffs of oily delight.

The relief of the evening breeze brings waves of nausea drafting behind and I can't sit here by the window much longer. I crank up the volume. The Chord is Mightier than the Sword, indeed.

How can one man grill every night?