Morning, dark. Johnny took his ritual walk the one hundred steps to the Pla de Palau, sat down on the plaza bench beside Sancho who was asleep, snoring. Perhaps sensing Johnny beside him, Sancho began to air-type, eyes still closed, saying, “I shall launch from Petrograd to Leningrad and all the way back to St. Petersburg!”
He opened his eyes. Patted Johnny on the knee. “My dear liege, after we launch at sea with the fete and all, I may decide to edit others. I have a line on some very fine cochineal blood pens and a most excellent olive oil of the arbequina to make my mark. After that, if everything goes down the tubes, the sky’s the limit.”
Feeling he could be of use to Sancho by steering him in the right direction for writing a novel, Johnny said, “So, what have you read lately?”
“R
