There must be some kind of way out of here
said the Joker to the Thief
There's too much confusion
I can't get no relief
Businessmen they drink my wine
plowmen dig my earth
Every one along the line
nobody of it is worth
No reason to get excited
the Thief he kindly spoke
There are many here among us
who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I we've been through that
and this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now
the hour's getting late
Honored by his friendship, exasperated by his manipulation, grateful in a thousand ways that Rex tolerated and defended me, admired and published my work, he flew me to Costa Rica and gave me a status unequaled in the Gulch that Rex built at enormous personal risk.
He gave his life to advance the cause of liberty, totally deaf to the rule of law. Paradoxically, it could have saved him. Among hundreds of crystal clear recollections, none was as sharp as Rex firing from the hip, one two three rounds in the compound after dark. Lord knows what the neighbors thought. Our next door neighbor was the concrete-walled Russian Consulate. The baroque Belgian Embassy across the street probably went on high alert. We had a tighter perimeter than they did. Gunfire in the diplomatic quarter was frequent, usually something disagreeable and dangerous. Rex handed me the gun and I held it at arm's length like a duelist, plugged a tree to feel what the trigger and recoil were like, swept my jacket aside and stuck it behind my back.
If you have occasion to fire a Makarov, it pulls to the left.
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