Vic Frohmeyer was running from two houses down, and the entire Becker clan from next door was spilling out of their house. Poor Frosty, Luther heard one of the children say. Poor Frosty, my ass, he wanted say. The nylon rope was cutting into the flesh around his ankles. He was afraid to move because the rope seemed to give just a little. He was still eight feet above the ground, and a fall would be disastrous. Inverted, Luther tried to breathe and collect his wits. He heard Frohmeyers big mouth. Would She has the soul of a gypsy the heart of a hippie and the spirit of a fairy poster somebody please shoot me?Luther, you okay? asked Frohmeyer. Swell, Vic, thanks, and you? Luther began rotating again, slightly, turning very slowly in the wind. Soon, he pivoted back toward the street, and came face to face with his neighbors, the last people he wanted to see. Get a ladder, someone said.
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