Millstone & Roche 2 - (The Case of Pure Blue Murder) - Chapter 6
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All Rights Reserved © 2021, Rick Haydn Horst Formerly known as Rick Heathen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Thank you for delving into this work; I hope you enjoy it.
The Case of Pure Blue Murder: a Millstone & Roche Investigation, By Rick Haydn Horst
CHAPTER SIX
[Millstone's Sources]
When Max and I left the Belcaro for our appointment with Johann, Max had checked the online map for the most efficient path from the club to the motel. From above, we could see a straight shot as my mother from Tennessee would say, "as the crow flies," providing we found no obstructions like fences, of course. Max held my hand as we jaywalked across Brie Street, and we took the shortcut in a bit of a rush.
"So, Barty died at 6 o'clock this morning," said Max, "but hit his head around 4 o'clock or so. If you're correct about when the case was opened, then that must have happened around 4, when the club closed."
"Right..."
"Do you think this Iota person has anything to do with it?"
"There's no direct evidence, and it could be a complete coincidence, so for now, it's hard to say. Someone needs to show the remainder of The Crypt's coven, a photo of Iota to see if anyone recognizes him from last night. But I will say this though, if Iota is involved, he would need to know who received the other cases of Blue Murder well before Marsh died between 1 and 3. He was at the Belcaro making inquiries while we were there about midnight."
"Oh, yeah," said Max. "Well, if that's true, it sounds like someone else killed Marsh later."--he thought about it for a moment--"Unless... What if Bennet is involved, as Tucker indicated, and he sent people to many clubs to make inquiries in the off chance someone else got their hands on the pills and was selling them? We may just know of Iota because we happened to be there."
"That's a thought, clubs are a huge outlet for drugs. If those bottles are full, they could easily hold a million dollars or more in Mollies, so it wouldn't surprise me if he sent out people to ask around, especially if he wanted to keep how they were transported under wraps. Although, the time of Barty's death could indicate whoever checked that case at The Crypt might have killed Marsh at the motel when they found out who received the other two cases, but that could also just be a coincidence. The only motive we have for Marsh's death involves the pills in some manner."
"If that information was written down on the invoices, why did they beat Marsh before they killed him?"
"For the trouble he caused, maybe? I don't know. For now, though, let's focus on the Gerhart Last case. We need to keep our client happy, one bad review on the internet makes lost income."
During our overland excursion, Max received a phone call from Winter. We had scheduled a meeting with her that afternoon, so Max could tell her that, after considerable thought, he would agree to father her children. She begged our forgiveness for having to move the meeting to late Sunday morning. She said that something had come up, and she had an old promise to keep. It was fine, of course. Chances are we would likely find ourselves pressed for time anyway.
We encountered no obstacles on the way to the motel and passed through six lots, a Japanese restaurant, a gas station with a 24-hour market, a drug store, an empty lot, an insurance agency, and at Bay Boulevard, we emerged from behind a Dungeon Café. The route we took and the speed at which we took it, probably shaved a couple of minutes off our walk. A casual glance toward room 20 told us that forensics had finished their business, they impounded the van, and the police had run several strips of crime scene tape across the door of the room.
Due to the time constraints, we hadn't had time to eat a proper lunch, and our level of hunger had tempted us to order delivery from our too-busy go-to the Peking Palace, and simply include a note to bring it to the picnic table at the back of The Strop Tonsorium, the location of our meeting with Johann. However, we hadn't wanted to make any presumptions and figured we probably should keep our meeting with him more formal.
On the way, Tucker texted Max that Gerhardt appeared to have stayed with Dante that night, and he saw him wearing only a blue t-shirt.
"Is Gerhardt fucking Dante too, you think?" asked Max.
"Don't know. It certainly sounds suspicious."
Germans tend to expect punctuality, and that's something I've always appreciated too, so I hadn't quite driven at breakneck speed to get there, but due to getting stopped by what seemed like every traffic light in Franklin, we were only two minutes early. The moment we left the vehicle, we detected the scent of barbecued meat that filled the air, and we heard music coming from behind the wooden fence at the back of the building, so I figured something was happening.
I followed Max down the flagstone path at the side of the building, and as I always do at every opportunity, I stared at his tight denim-encased ass--it's just so beautiful, I couldn't help myself. I had only cum once that morning, and it was already one o'clock.
The moment Max opened the gate, we discovered a group of about 30 mostly naked leather men having lunch. The barbershop had an entire gathering space there. It held a dozen picnic tables beneath a shelter, with an outdoor kitchen and a grill made of red brick.
We saw Johann, his enormously muscular, hairless naked body on full display. His plump, smooth, and delicious-looking uncut dangler bounced around with every movement. He celebrated Bare as You Dare Day wearing nothing but a pair of mostly transparent tennis shoes. The whole scene was too much for me, and the tickling sensation began making my pants grow tight in the crotch.
"Uh-oh," I whispered to Max. "I'm getting an erection."
Max made a quick glance at me. "So, which meat is getting to you most, the meat we can smell or the meat we can see?
"Probably both."
"Yeah, me too, I'm hungry and horny. Well, you know what to do about your meat."
"Ah!" Johann exclaimed when he saw us and approached us with a big smile. "Welcome to the Barber-Q! But you are so dressed! Today is a day of letting one's trousers down, to relax and be comfortable!" He made his cock flop around to make his point. He playfully shook his finger at me. "And you are not shy; this I know."
"What happened to your accent?" asked Max. Unlike when we met, we noted he had begun pronouncing his TH's like Z's, and his W's like V's.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I try, but it is hard for me; in all of English the T' and H' together, that damn diphthong is the most tiring. It's not natural for me. German has nothing like it, and I must double think everything I say. Come, you must eat with us, and we will talk, ja?"
The men were The Strop's employees, their friends, their boyfriends, partners, and husbands. We saw big burly bears there, muscle bears, otters, and wolves, a veritable pack of metaphorical animals pleased to meet us, inviting us to lunch, and calling us by name. Master Barbers Mitch and Tony were there, of course, and we finally met Andre. Johann told them we were on the way, so I knew what was coming next, and I didn't have much choice, as Max pointed out. Trying to sit with a growing erection in my pants is painful for me, and I could no longer use the old trick of hiding it beneath my clothes; I wore shorter shirts, and they fit my torso as they should. The benefit of not doing that, however, meant that it would help stretch my suspensory ligament, and even after two weeks, I noticed that it felt a little looser and my erections looked less vertical. Of course, it helped that Max pulled down on it so often.
One of the men cruelly waved a plate of barbecued steak under our noses saying, "Naked men get delicious Barber-Q." We were both starving by that point, so with eyes on the plate and inhaling the aroma, Max began removing his clothing. I had no willpower; the food smelled so good, and I hadn't had barbecue since I lived near Nashville with my parents, so off came the clothing--which was their plan all along--and my cock continued to grow erect. I made sure everyone could see it. I knew that was the payment they sought. It should go without saying that my cockhead hovering near my sternum garnered several calls of the phrase "holy shit" or variations on that theme, and I heard a new one, "Fuck my ass and call me Susie," but most just stared in silence. One of them asked how big I was, and I seldom give a direct answer to that question. I'm not sure what had possessed me to give specifics that day, but I had. No one asked to touch my cock, probably thinking that would go too far, but a few asked if they could "pet" Max's golden fur, which made him laugh; no one had ever used that word before.
Max sat on the bench at the table, and before I could join him, he had taken hold of my cock and shoved it into his mouth. I meant it when Max could have it any time, and he wanted it. Suddenly, we had become the show and all eyes were on us.
"Does anyone have a problem with this?" I asked. "Max wants it and I need the relief."
No one complained, so I took it as a non-issue. I watched the guys around us as Max blew me, and they sat mesmerized and unblinking to see Max take me repeatedly to the root like the handsome show-off that he was. He used his hands to force-feed nearly every inch of me into his gullet, and he had me grunting with every retreat up the shaft. He sucked and slurped my meat like a man sucking the tender juicy flesh on the bone of the longest rib in the world. And when I fed him, he made sure every jet of sauce leaving the end of my schlong, passed through 6 inches of air before it entered his mouth. Max could be a real showman when he had an appreciative audience. As my orgasm died down, he took me into his mouth and cleaned me up. When I kissed him, everyone cheered and clapped their hands thanking us for the show. One man who shook my hand said, "That beats the hell out of dinner theater."
We had no sink to wash our hands, so once everyone went back to their food, the grill master offered us a couple of hand sanitizing wipes with our grilled chicken, steak, and the usual assortment of side dishes, all of which we accepted gratefully. We sat across from Johann and Mitch.
Max thumbed toward the building. "Is no one minding the store?"
"The shop is closed for lunch," said Mitch. "We'll open again later. As you might imagine, we make big tips on Bare as You Dare Day."
"So, where is Gerhardt?" asked Johann. "He did not come home last night."
With no apparent concern for privacy, we told Johann what he wanted to know. Where Gerhardt went, who he fucked, and where he stayed. Of course, regardless of how it may have appeared, we could not know if Gerhardt had sex with Dante despite having stayed there.
Johann gave us a bit of their history, so we could understand the significance and have some context. Johann was born in 1987 in Russia and given the name Ivan. His parents were Russian Mennonites who moved to Germany in the early 1990s and changed Ivan's name to Johann. So, Johann grew up in Germany. Gerhardt was born in 2001. Their parents believed Germany had grown too liberal, so, sponsored by some relatives, their family emigrated to Germantown, Pennsylvania from Germany in 2003, when Johann was 16.
Johann had always kept his attraction to men hidden from them because he knew they weren't accepting. By the time he turned 18, the Mennonite community encouraged him to begin his Rumspringa. Rumspringa was the time when young Mennonites and Amish go out and experience the modern world and decide if they wish to return to the church and the community. When it ended, if he stayed with the Mennonites, he would have married whatever girl they told him to. However, when Johann left at 18, he never went back. Instead, he moved to a place nearby in Philadelphia designed to help people who want to leave the Amish and Mennonite community, helping them to integrate. He returned to school to get his general education diploma, got a job, and went to barber school. His parents and the Mennonite community shunned him, but he managed to visit his brother in secret. His parents found out, and when they discovered he was moving to Franklin, they forbid him to ever contact them or Gerhardt again, fearing Johann's influence on his brother, but Gerhart had already known Johann was gay, and Johann had left him his phone number.
Gerhardt called Johann a few days before he arrived in Franklin. He wouldn't go into specifics, but he told him that once Johann moved to Franklin, his parents weren't good to him, and wanted to know if he could stay with him in Franklin until he got his own place.
"What might your parents have done to him?" asked Max. "And why would they take you moving to Franklin out on him?"
"My parents grew up in Russia," he said. "The culture is different there, and they could be harsh. My papa was a stern man who would go too far. If I had come out to him as gay at home, he would have beaten the hell out of me, I think. I don't know what they would have done to Gerhardt or why, unless they were more critical and suspicious of him because of me, but he is straight as far as I know. He told me when he got here that he would never go back for any reason. He said he hadn't blamed me for what happened; it was their choices."
"You said he was different when he arrived," I said. "How was he different?"
"I don't know where he has been the last few years, but I suspect he had left home before his Rumspringa. He has money, clothes, the ability to drive, a driver's license, the car, and worldly knowledge that he would not have if he had just left home."
"Has he told you where he got the car?"
"He wouldn't say. It looks brand new. I don't understand how he could afford such an expensive vehicle."
Max turned to me. "Given who he was fucking at the club, was the car a gift, maybe?"
"Perhaps a gift," I said, "or a reward, but for what?"--I took a deep breath--"Well, Johann, your brother is certainly a mystery, but we've given you all the information we have. Is there anything else you would like to know?"
"Not for now," he said. "I think it would take many days of your services to know everything, and I can't afford that."
"As our friend, if we happen to incidentally run across anything new, we'll let you know, but if you want any active investigating, you'll have to hire us."
"I appreciate that, and I understand," he said, and once he had paid us through the online payment service, I had closed the Gerhardt Last case. "By the way, I may see you both again later," Johann added. "Albert texted me that he would take the detective test today, so we should celebrate tonight on our date, and surely, he will want all his friends there too."
"You have a date with Albert?" asked Max. "That's great!"
"Ja, when you told me that he would love another long ride on my riesenschwanz, I called him. I wanted a date last night, but he had a previously scheduled date with Kurt, so we made a date for tonight, and hopefully more in the future."
"I see," said Max.
I asked him, "Had it bothered you that he was with Kurt last night?"
"Oh, no, I understand; I find that once you've had Albert, he is a hard man to give up. He gave Kurt a let-him-down-easy fuck, I think."
Max and I both thought the idea amusing. "That's so kind of him," I said.
Johann nodded. "Albert is thoughtful like that, ja."
[Tucker's Journal]
I felt famished when I left Wade at the motel, so I drove to The Village to have lunch at Lumberjacks, and the entire time, I could only think about Wade and his "When he asked me to marry him". He sounded determined to have me (someone who had lived a messy existence) in his relatively structured life where he had a place for everything and everything in its place. I liked the idea that he wanted to make a place for me, but no one had ever wanted me before, not like Wade had. I guess I was just looking for the catch, the problem, the stumbling block, the flaw within me that would cause a problem. I had never known if I tended to worry about a relationship. Over the years, I had given up on ever having one. All that time, the most I would have lost was a willing piece of ass. I had made no real investment, but then neither had they. It scared me that I invested my emotions in Wade, and my hopes, and my desires for the future. If I lost him, I would feel it in a far more personal way than I had with Tommy Haines, and that was bad enough.
Unlike my sadist persona's appearance, where I just looked rough, a bit dangerous, and as though I were willing to pound some guy's bubble at a moment's notice so long as I got to hurt him, a vampire goth persona would require more effort. So, I needed help with it, and I knew who to ask.
It hadn't mattered to Taylor the tailor if I reciprocated, he had decided that he liked me, and that was that. The man was so amiable, I couldn't help but like him, even if he had foisted his friendship upon me whether I wanted it or not.
The previous Monday, I took Taylor the custom bulletproof vest he made me for Winter's housewarming--the night Bo Pecker shot me--to have it repaired, and he kindly replaced the damaged silk outer panel for free. He enjoyed my account of what had occurred, especially the part where the vest had saved me from serious injury or worse. He had never known whether any of his bulletproof garments had ever saved anyone's life, and it pleased him to have had a hand in saving mine.
When I entered his shop that Saturday, I found him sewing a button on the blazer of the customer who waited at the counter. He looked up when he heard the entry bells. He smiled at me and told me he would be with me in a moment. Taylor finished the button, the man thanked him, slid his jacket back on, and left.
"Sew buttons on for free, do you?" I asked.
"I do for a man who buys all his suits from me like that one. It's marvelous to see you, Tucker; I'm so glad you're here. I need to speak to you about something important."
"I came to you about something important as well, but you go first."
"Very well. For years, my manager at the main store near the college has told me of the repeated requests for me to design men's underwear, so I am finally giving in to the demands and branching out a bit. There are so many bad designs out there for men to choose from, but I can do better. I have bought the equipment and hired a few people for the work, but I have one problem. Men seem to have no problem appreciating a suit on a classic torso mannequin with a finial neck cap--like those in my front window--but for underwear, you need a human. So, I have a serious offer. How would you like to be one of my underwear models?"
"What? I know nothing about modeling and all that catwalk stuff."
"Oh, good heavens, I'm not talking about traipsing down some tired runway. All you must do is wear what I make, and let a professional photographer take some catalog and advertising shots. They don't even have to show your face if you prefer a level of anonymity. I know you have your job with Mr. Millstone, but for you, this could be a great `side gig'--I believe they call it."
"I wouldn't represent your average consumer," I said. "So, why me?"
"The support and roominess for the underwear are specialized for different sized men. There will be four male models, small, medium, large, and you represent the extra-large end of the scale. But don't think yours is so unique. I've measured a few men with a penis as long as yours, and I've measured one man as thick as yours, but yours is the only one I've seen with both the length and girth."
"Overall, Millstone's bigger than me; why haven't you asked him?"
"Actually, you are mistaken about that. I was curious, so I did the math for volume, and- "
"No!" I said, cringing behind my raised hands. "No. No. Don't tell me! I don't want to know how much more of a freak I am than Millstone."
"Oh, very well," he said, "I won't tell you but know this, you are not a freak. You are a wonderful, excessively blessed man, and I'm certain your detective boyfriend would agree. Mr. Millstone is a handsome, extraordinary man entirely in a league of his own for length, but more importantly, you are not only more attractive than him, but also 10 years younger."
"I see. I appreciate the compliment."
He shrugged. "Just stating an obvious fact."
"Well, I admit the idea of being an underwear model intrigues me, so let's talk compensation for a moment. You've seen me naked, so you know what you're getting. I even let you touch and measure my dick, so the question is, how badly do you want to see it wrapped in your underwear? I can whip it out for you if you need a reminder."
"No need, I remember every beautiful veiny inch of it."--he stared at me for a moment--"Here's what I'm willing to do. I'll give you $1200 for a four-hour shoot, and if all goes well, I will rehire you for subsequent shoots. And as a further incentive to keep you coming back, for you only--not the other three--after every photo shoot, I will specially make anything you like for free, regardless of what it is, a suit, a coat, whatever you want."
"Oh my," I said, completely taken aback by the offer. "Given what you charge for special items, you really want me to do this, don't you?"
"I can replace the others with relative ease, but not you. You are a rare gem, and I'm not just talking about your size."
"I don't know what to say to that."
He rolled his eyes. "Oh, for goodness' sake, just say yes."
"Okay, fine. You had me at `free clothing' anyway, so yes. The Jeep needs more tint for the windows, so I could always use the money, and it sounds like fun, but no face shots."
"Deal!" He held out his hand to shake, which I did. "You'll hear from me within the next few weeks. Now, with my business concluded, what was your something important?"
"For as much as I wish you could, I know you can't go into the backroom and magically reappear with the perfect set of clothing for me, but I need to look like a genuine vampire goth tonight. So, I ask you, who would I go to for that? And this is work-related, by the way, so I would need their complete discretion."
A customer walked in, and Taylor told the man he would be with him in a moment.
"That's an interesting question," he said as we began to whisper. "Being a tailor and clothier, I know several people who could do it. In her abilities, Jezebel would be perfect, but she could never keep her mouth shut, a terrible gossip, that one. I will send you to Denarius Black. He has a balance of trustworthiness and expertise, and he owes me a favor." He picked up his phone and called Denarius, and once he invoked the return of the favor, Denarius said he would meet me at his shop the Emporio Oscuro in twenty minutes. I thanked Taylor and left him to his customer.
For years, my relationship with my dick had vacillated between pride and embarrassment, dependent upon the circumstance and company. And while I canceled the Bare as You Dare Day challenge, I could cope with standing before a camera for a few hours in my underwear, and frankly, I felt like I owed Taylor. Sure, he got paid big bucks for it, but his vest design had saved me, and so long as my face wasn't involved, he wasn't asking too much.
I called Max when I got to the Jeep. Wade had called him and Millstone to the precinct to give them an update on the forensics. I told them what Wade asked me to do, and that I was working on a disguise for the memorial service. Neither of them liked that Wade asked me to go to the memorial without discussing it with them first, but they admitted that someone probably should go. I told them to talk to Wade about it, and that I accepted his reasoning for why it should be me. Millstone told me to use the company credit card and keep the receipts so the police department could reimburse the agency.
The dark emporium sat outside the pedestrian zone, just west of Gothwick, on a short connecting street called Windicott, and after parking in their empty lot, I checked my phone and noted that I received a text from Albert Sawyer. He had completed the detective exam and would know the results soon. He said he felt confident that he did well, and I was happy for him.
An old-style Volkswagen Beetle in black pulled in beside the Jeep. I don't recall what I expected, but it wasn't the slender thirty-year-old, shirtless punk goth that I met that day. He had a couple of spike facial piercings, hair in a crimson Mohawk, and his black jeans had numerous rows of safety pins holding them together. He looked like he had almost no body fat, and his abs beneath his pale skin were clearly visible in the daylight.
"Hello Hello!" he said in a jaunty British accent--which I came to notice was chocked full of glottal stops. With a smile on his face showing a nice set of teeth, he held his hand out and I shook it. "I'm Denarius Black, but everyone calls me Denny."
"I'm Tucker Caillen MacEach, and please call me Tucker."
"I will. So, helping you will wipe me slate with T-squared?"
"T-squared?" I asked.
"Three T's, Taylor the Tailor." He raked his eyes over me. "Lookin' at you, that won't do at all. Looks like I still owe him something."--he winked at me and tipped his head toward the door--"Come on in."
He slid the key into the door and unlocked it. I noticed the sign in the little window stating the hours and he closed the shop on the weekends, which wasn't unusual for Franklin. Many shops only opened during the week, but he'd come in on his day off and seemed pleased about it.
The shop had a good-sized footprint, easily the size of a single-level major department store. The interior had a warm and cozy feel to it as they had saturated its decor with dark colors on the walls or draperies that sectioned off the place.
"Welcome to all things Goth at the Dark Emporium," he said. When he closed the door behind me, he locked it, and I followed him to the checkout counter he leaned against. "So, I need information, the who, what, where, when, and why of it, and we'll start from there. And while you're at it, get your kit off down to the studs, or in your case Stud."
"You want me to remove my clothes? What is it with people wanting me naked?"
"Have ya got a mirror at home?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Then you should know why. Besides, when doing a remodel, you should always strip the wallpaper. So, getcha wallpaper off. Chop chop! And don't worry about ya feet, the carpet's clean."
I started with my shoes, socks, shirt, and then my pants as he watched me, and of course, as people do, he couldn't let my cock go without a comment.
"Wow. You're not just well fit, are ya? That's a doozy of a Dickory Dock ya got there, innit?
"It's my ass wrecker."
"It wouldn't wreck mine," he said, his head tilted to the side, staring at it, and sighed. "Fuck 24/7, we would. I'd probably lose the shop and become destitute. Mind you, it might be worth it. Got a boyfriend, have ya?"
"Yeah, and he mentioned the M-word today."
"Of course, you have," he said, sounding disappointed. "Can't let a bloke like you get away now, can he?"
"I thought Goths wouldn't find me all that interesting."
"Let me give you a little secret. Never let the appearance fool ya, we all have our preferences that--in other people's opinion--might seem an unGoth-like peccadillo ranging anywhere from smiling too much to enjoying pop music. But we are who we are, and there's no accounting for tastes. I've had personal experience with bigger blokes like you, and I know of what your lot's capable, so you don't need to be a Goth stereotype to be of interest. I don't mind tellin' ya, if it were you and me, after giving me a good poundin' every night, you'd find me sleeping like a baby, wrapped around them legs of yours like a tree hugger saving an oak from a bulldozer. But right now, we've lots to do, so give me the info and leave nothin' out."
"Okay, I don't know what to say to that," I said, "but here's what you should know..."
I told him I needed to look like a genuine vampire goth, where I intended to go that evening, and who I would be around, but I hadn't told him for who or why. Taylor may trust him, but we had too much riding on it, so I made something up on the spot. I told him I was doing a favor for a reporter who would be recognized immediately if they went, and I asked for his discretion.
"A mate told me today about the memorial service," he said. "It's informal, so people will dress in their usual attire. What that might be, depends on the individual." He looked me up and down. "You're a bit big for a vampire goth, but you could get away with it if you make it work for you rather than against you."
"You couldn't just dress me and me just go with it?"
"No. I should take things into account. This is about an aesthetic that speaks to you. If I dress you with no thought to that, you won't wear the clothes; the clothes will wear you, and everyone would avoid you as an obvious poser."
"Okay. How do we make my size work for me? And what about my hair?"
"You have several problems we need to address. You've more muscle than the average goth, vampire or otherwise, and your hair is red, although it is auburn, so that's not as bad. Not that it's necessary, but also, you've no piercings or tattoos. Since this is a one-off, I suspect you wouldn't want any piercings. Have you ever considered a tattoo? You have a beautiful blank canvas, and you wouldn't have to have anything too elaborate. I could recommend someone to you if you might ever consider it. For the moment, I will give you a temporary tattoo."
"Wouldn't people know it's fake?"
He shook his head. "Temporaries are perfectly acceptable, and I'll tell ya why. A tattoo is nothing to jump into, especially your first one, and smart tattoo enthusiasts know this. You could be stuck with one you've decided you don't like for a long time, so make sure it's the one you want, and a temp is perfect for trying something out. And I figure if you don't already have one, at least look like you're thinking about it.
"You mention your hair. I have a spray product to blacken it, but I don't recommend it. Your beard would still be red, and two-tone's not a good look for you. I have an idea, but you've got to embrace this and own it, but not everyone can. Being Goth is more about the music, the attitude, and how you carry yourself than it is about the aesthetic. We just use the aesthetic to express ourselves, but I think I have the perfect thing for you. So, let me ask you this, Mr. MacEach, have you ever worn a kilt?"
I wasn't so sure how it would work out, but with the mention of the kilt, he started speaking my language, and that gave me confidence that he knew what he was doing.
Please send questions, comments, or complaints to RickHaydnHorst@gmail.com. I would enjoy reading what you have to say. I ask for patience, I'm writing this as I go, like I did the first novel, and it's going to take time. Keep checking back!