That’s all she wrote, my friend would say,
Every time another chapter ended in our
Adventures together. He’d preface it, usually,
With a little welp: Welp, he’d say, that’s all—
You get the idea. And then he’d exit the truck,
Disappear into the trees and underbrush,
And six days or six months later, drop me
A telegram. It usually came while I took tea
At an outdoor plaza of cobbled stones.
It was delivered by a kid on an Indian
Wearing a leather jacket and aviator glasses.
Steampunks. What is it with those guys?
Anyway, the message was always the same:
Pierre says it’s time. – Maximillian.
And then off I’d be to the rendezvous spot.
You asked for the story. That’s part one.