As the rhythmic beat of the wipers competed with the ebb and crescendo of the drumming of the rain, Mort watched as the motorists whose only ailment was an allergy to getting rained-on scrambled from the disabled parking spaces. Mort watched, and thought to himself how much he hated the task which lay before him; but his mission – as feared and despised as death itself – beckoned. He took a deep breath, then adjusting the rain cover on his uniform cap, he grabbed his ticket book and exited the Parking Control vehicle.
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Padre
Padre's Ramblings 