Satiricus wiped a tear discretely from his cheek. The fellas pretended not to notice, since they knew their friend. Sooner, rather than later, he’d spill his guts as to what was going on inside his head. They’d been imbibing for a while at the Back Street Bar and it could be that Satiricus was just getting sentimental, as he was wont to do past beer number four.
“I didn’t realise there were still people like this in the world,” Satiricus finally sniffed. His two friends lifted their heads up from their beers and looked at him quizzically.
“Boy, that was really something Prezzie did, wasn’t it?” said Satiricus in answer to their unspoken question.
“A wha’ yuh a ta’k about, Sato?” replied Bungi, who wondered if this was the source of the waterworks. “Wha’ Prezzie do fuh mek yuh cry?”
“This is what worries me about you fellas sometimes,” Satiricus said a bit exasperatedly, as he wiped another tear away not so discreetly this time. “You have eyes to read, but you still don’t see!”
“Man, you getting all biblical and stuff!” exclaimed Hari. “What’s going on?”
“Well, look how Prezzie gave away his house to the groups that keep Burnt Ham memory alive,” Satiricus said in a choked up voice. “Aren’t you astounded that a mere mortal would do such an act in this day and age?”
“A wha’ kinda age da, Sato?” asked Bungi.
“Nowadays everybody just want… want… want!” exclaimed Satiricus. “And here is Prezzie giving up his only house for his old leader.” Satiricus sniffed some more.
“But he’s living in State House,” pointed out Hari. “He doesn’t need a house.”
“Yes, but he may have to leave in four years, or at best eight,” Satiricus pointed out, with another sniff. “He’ll have to live in the streets!”
“Sato ole fr’en’, yuh neva t’ink Prezzie inten’ fuh stay ah State House fuh life?” said Bungi. “Like ‘e leadah Burnt Ham?”
Satiricus became cold sober.
