This is the gully where that beady-eyed, fluorescent-shirt-wearing cowboy murdered you, after promising that you’ll inherit his ranch if you helped him get investors for his Ponzi scheme. That guy, with his southern drawl and his dark brown boots, had this nefarious aspect to him you saw through, but still fell victim to — the allure of an imaginary farm with Jersey cattle and shaggy ewes, drawing you. It didn’t help that he was Japanese Sinhalese and told you the farm was in a remote corner of the Artic: A viridescent, homely pasture rid of ice and sleet, reserved for you.
Ordinary Person 
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