Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Cattle Raid of Paganicon
“Was that housekeeping that just went by?”
The woman sticks her head out of the hotel room door.
“No,” I say, chin-pointing, “but the cart's down there.” I'd just walked past it, on my way to the ice machine.
“Bless you,” she says, falling in alongside.
“Somewhat excessive,” I say.
“Toilet paper,” she explains.
“All is made clear,” I reply.
She snags a roll from the unattended cart.
“Celtic warrior making a raid,” she quips, heading back down the hall at a goodly clip.
“I thought that was cattle,” I call over my shoulder.
“Needs must, when the Horned One drives,” she deadpans, vanishing into her room.
Louis de Brocquy, "Bull"
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