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Nuvolari
- Watchlord WIS
- Posts: 3861
- Joined: August 7th 2014, 5:53pm
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It’s A Sketchy Place, Off The Beaten Path
Orwood is located on the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad 7 miles east of my town and sits at an elevation of 3 feet.
I stumbled onto the tiny road in my backroads exploration and concluded this would be a great place to burry your troubles.
Too bad my friends Frankie and Franco couldn’t have been here with me - they would have appreciated its unique ‘ambiance’. You’re not likely to find someone setting up a picnic back here.
Later, they went by Frank E. and Frank O. after I decided to use them for my E&O Insurance. Frank E., my Italian friend, was a very big brilliant guy at 6’7” who had always stayed fit and real close to the same 295lb. weight from when he received a full-ride scholarship to be Stanford’s defensive tackle.
Frank O., on the other hand, was Italian. He looked like Mr. Clean, only bigger. Slightly bigger, taller, more muscular, and meaner than Frank E., though when he liked you he also had a great big smile that had even more sparkle than his enormous and what appeared to be highly polished bald head.
It was fun to pull up to a crowded restaurant with us all wearing dark suits with Frank E. driving while Frank O. would open both my car door and that of the restaurant while Frank E parked the car.
It was such a spectacle and these two guys made everywhere feel so crowded if we were’t seated right away, we would be the next party to get a table. A good one.
What am I wearing!? I’ll tell you what I’m wearing, okay? Fuck YOU, that’s what I’m wearing. Got it smart ass? I’m telling a story here, for fucks sake.
Oh yeah - so, the irony, of course, was that The Franks were sweethearts. Just the best. Trustworthy, honest, and jovial good men who accept - and therefore receive - zero bullshit. So, “…don’t mess with the beans - or you’ll get the WHOLE FRANK!”
I love The Franks but I really did hate having them in the same car together- particularly if it was my car. I mean, these guys were hard on everything - the seats, the door handles, neither one was capable of not slamming a door because their ginormous muscles could only reduce their power so much… which, trust me, wasn’t very much. (Franco gave me a bear hug one Christmas that ended up cracking a rib!)
This sketchy space near Orwood offers the kind of backdrop you might see on Vera or Wallander if you watch any PBS or BritBox.
It occurred to be if someone encountered a problem with debt collection, this would be a great road to drive along for a special conversation.
I think it would be most impactful for me to drive and have the prospective debtor flanked on either side by a Frank.
By the time you get to the dirt road that sits near a private river marina in between the railroad tracks and infrastructure plumbing I suspect, as a group, everyone would come to a mutual understanding long before the car came to a complete stop.
I stumbled onto the tiny road in my backroads exploration and concluded this would be a great place to burry your troubles.
Too bad my friends Frankie and Franco couldn’t have been here with me - they would have appreciated its unique ‘ambiance’. You’re not likely to find someone setting up a picnic back here.
Later, they went by Frank E. and Frank O. after I decided to use them for my E&O Insurance. Frank E., my Italian friend, was a very big brilliant guy at 6’7” who had always stayed fit and real close to the same 295lb. weight from when he received a full-ride scholarship to be Stanford’s defensive tackle.
Frank O., on the other hand, was Italian. He looked like Mr. Clean, only bigger. Slightly bigger, taller, more muscular, and meaner than Frank E., though when he liked you he also had a great big smile that had even more sparkle than his enormous and what appeared to be highly polished bald head.
It was fun to pull up to a crowded restaurant with us all wearing dark suits with Frank E. driving while Frank O. would open both my car door and that of the restaurant while Frank E parked the car.
It was such a spectacle and these two guys made everywhere feel so crowded if we were’t seated right away, we would be the next party to get a table. A good one.
What am I wearing!? I’ll tell you what I’m wearing, okay? Fuck YOU, that’s what I’m wearing. Got it smart ass? I’m telling a story here, for fucks sake.
Oh yeah - so, the irony, of course, was that The Franks were sweethearts. Just the best. Trustworthy, honest, and jovial good men who accept - and therefore receive - zero bullshit. So, “…don’t mess with the beans - or you’ll get the WHOLE FRANK!”
I love The Franks but I really did hate having them in the same car together- particularly if it was my car. I mean, these guys were hard on everything - the seats, the door handles, neither one was capable of not slamming a door because their ginormous muscles could only reduce their power so much… which, trust me, wasn’t very much. (Franco gave me a bear hug one Christmas that ended up cracking a rib!)
This sketchy space near Orwood offers the kind of backdrop you might see on Vera or Wallander if you watch any PBS or BritBox.
It occurred to be if someone encountered a problem with debt collection, this would be a great road to drive along for a special conversation.
I think it would be most impactful for me to drive and have the prospective debtor flanked on either side by a Frank.
By the time you get to the dirt road that sits near a private river marina in between the railroad tracks and infrastructure plumbing I suspect, as a group, everyone would come to a mutual understanding long before the car came to a complete stop.
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”Russian Warship - Go Fuck Yourself!”
