Lactating Indian
He beckoned for the old man to follow him to a nearby hut. “Come old man, tell me everything about this mysterious army that is killing my compatriots, I want to know every last detail.”The Tribune and his three centurions listened to the old man as he unfolded his story. They stared at the village elder with more and more incredulity as they learned about the Pagan Princess Melissia and her army of ‘Warrior Women.’“Are you telling me old man that our troops are being massacred by a bunch of little girls?” Snarled Antoninus through gritted teeth.“Well, they are not so little.” Replied the old man. “And they are highly trained in guerrilla fighting and blinded by revenge. They dearly want to avenge the slaughter of their men folk.” The elder gave the assembled Romans a woeful look that said I am so tired of all this v******e and death.Antoninus sighed. “What is your name old man?”“I go by the name of Frederick” He repliedThe Tribune rose from his crude wooden chair. “Well Frederick. By the time I was finished I wondered about going for another run, or going down to the J.R.C. to see the lads. I figured it was too late for a run. It would just get the blood pumping and I wouldn't be able to sleep. Going down to the bar, I'd probably end up at some party somewhere, and roll home tomorrow morning, stinking of stale drink, and probably vomit. I didn't think that would help, either. So I made myself some tea, ate the ham sandwich that Jean had ignored, and watched the T.V., feeling sorry for myself. Friday night T.V. is shite. I went to bed.I woke at 8.00 the next morning. Jean was beside me in bed, out for the count. I decided to apply the old adage and let sleeping dogs lie. Or in this case a sleeping bitch. I got my running gear, changed in the bathroom and went for a run. I hadn't really been all that consistent lately so I made it a distance run. Ten miles, target time, one hour. I managed one hour ten. I cooled down and finished with press-ups sit-ups and.
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