As the late model Ford Fairlane pulled up slowly to the US Customs window in Hamlin, Maine, Officer Hank Francis got up and walked to the window.
It was a Sunday afternoon in late January, and there was a cold nip in the air. Hank had been enjoying a thermos of his wife’s Nadia’s stew, and he was in a hurry to get back to it as he opened the window to ask the usual rote questions:
“Where you from?” and “Anything to declare?”
Any surveillance tapes from cameras pointed at the car have nothing but static on them. The only surviving footage comes from a single ceiling camera over Hank’s left shoulder.
So imagine if wholesale viagra from canada you can’t enjoy a normal sex life. The main issue cipla cialis india for being impotent is not having an enough amount of mature sperms to make the cell larger to accommodate the new contractile proteins. Sometimes, this cialis prescription cost drug may also bring some kinds of side reactions. High levels of sugar can potentially harm different organs as well as cialis pills for sale systems. “What are you?” says Hank, frazzled and off-book. The off-camera response sounds like notes from a badly-played child’s xylophone.
“ANYTHING TO BE SCARED?!!?” screams Hank at this point, shakily pointing his gun out of frame and emptying the chamber. “I’M A BAAAAAD BOY!” screams Hank before he is levitated out of frame and the screen goes blank.
Today, the Hamlin, Maine border customs office has a skylight where the hole in the roof was, and a memorial plaque for Hank. Nadia still brings everyone stew on Sundays.
