Horatio gallantly put the dirty horseshoe in the front pocket of his overalls. He needed all the luck he could muster if he was going to get that job. Upon thinking of his tremendous upper hand, he felt a sharp twinge of pain in the upper part of his heart. Being a worldly man, he recognized the specific ache. It was empathy and conscience. It was apparent that if he obtained employment by using luck, it would be unfair, and consequently, he would not be able to live with himself.
It was the way he said it. The fully-realized conviction in his eyes, the solemnity of his relaxed eyebrows, his firm lips, which were normally quivering like recently snapped rubber bands moving this way and that. Van Von Simpson II even stood while he spoke. This was beyond astounding, for prior to this moment, he was incapable of standing and speaking simultaneously in the same way most people cannot chew gum.
From below, it all looked so precarious. A very slanted rooftop, nearly three stories high, two rocking chairs, two very old men, Hank and Tom, and a cooler filled with beer; a sure recipe for disaster. Rest assured, these two guys knew more about the laws of gravity than most anybody.
“I think I’ve got cancer.” Tom squinted and looked directly into the sun until he couldn’t see anymore.
Hank spit up a mouthful of warm beer, “You need a doctor to tell you something like that. What you’re doing there is self-diagnosing and speculating. Bad bad combination if you ask me.”