Ian desired acreage, and held in disregard those who thought otherwise. His head-butting glory days in the past, he reminisced over acreage, never getting enough. Ian (see sentence one) applied rust-proofing stuff to his fences and stairs; as well he was liable to hurl insults at you, if you know what I am proposing.

Ian glanced over his hirsute shoulder, Capricorn that he was. Then, holding down the fort, he wished fearlessly, quietly: whispering forgotten old-timey sayings, safe-guarding the hell out of ten acres filled with trees and some fruit-bearing vines. Reader, you’re perhaps thinking Ian’s not his real name at all, but to elaborate, I mean it. It is. Mishaps with his childhood slingshot rang doom to his young genitalia.

Nowadays, Ian curates his valuables, worrying when his acres get flooded. Sideshows, otherwise, but Ian’s the curator now. This one time, we were shindigging around and the oak branches caught Ian off guard. Man, that fucking tree was an actual alleyway mugger. Two healthy males, Ian and me. I watched him tie one on.

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