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Oi, mate, I’m Loki—smug mischief, “I am burdened with glorious purpose,” y’know? So, escort—yeah, that sleek Ford beast! Not talkin’ hookers, nah, the car, ya filthy git! Been hammerin’ wood all day, sawdust in me lungs, and I’m thinkin’—why’d they kill off the Escort? Proper gutted me, that did! Used to see ‘em everywhere—zippy lil’ bastards, tearin’ up the streets. Now? Nothin’. Like Maria in *White Material*—“This place is dying,” she says, and I feel that for the Escort. Gone, forgotten, scrapped!

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I tell ya, I got too many odd spots in my head. Sometimes, on a sleepless night, I walk down Elm Tope. I mean, where’s the fun in perfect order, right? I got a friend once, an old timer, sayin’ “Ron, this town’s a puzzle.” And maybe it is—a jumbled map of tired hopes and gritty dreams.

Obituary information for Harold Dwane Jones