Feeding The Book Maker... A Stake

A market leader Chesham, carried a loaded stake, filled with magical juicy rare power which made him loosen the formal dining out Royal Ascot around his neck.

“Man is it hot,” the good to firm turf defender thought, “but this humidity does make me look like a winner, tough, sweating it out.”

Walking through many cobblestone venues, moments of joy clearly showed, originating in Chesham’s heart, especially thinking about Kristy Agatha, his first loving crush.

“It was The Secret Adversary mystery, that brought us together,” Chesham remembered, “only took a second and,”

“Next chapter page, the whole story turned into a winning rebel romance, filled with emotional injury tension,” Al Riffa, a former footballer nudged his friend, “we do live in a strong village, no wonder the herd farmers come here and sell all their wares.”

“It is our Hardwicke attitude area luring everybody to put down stakes and make a buck,” Chesham replied, “especially if you are in the group two. So, Al Riffa, my friend, are you ever going to show people you are a ghost writer?”

“No, Chesham, that is not my goal,” Al Reiffa made clear.

Later, ready to pen, a group one mystery set aboard the QE2, Queen Elizabeth the Second cruise ship. Al Reiffa found himself relaxing from a saucy French influenced Jubilee steak, “it was lazzat, a winner at many levels,” he commentated remembering how some of it got away, landing on the white linen napkin.

Striking the keyboard the writer started spinning yarn, ‘Flora of Bermuda show was scheduled on the social deck and an out of the money Irish bred, Night eyes watched the beautiful arrangements with keen interest. Strolling enjoying their evening a young couple discussed their Satano Reve dream village place, received as a wedding gift only a few days ago.

“I would stake my Jersey, that tea garden entry will win group three,” the newlywed groom boasted.

“It would be a noble champion long shot, if they were winners,” the bride debated.

As the two lovebirds disappeared, the hidden spy chief left his place and put on a Night Eyes only Comanche brave show performance, alone in the dark.’

“Remmooz,” and elderly passenger, stated thinking the talent was out of the money, needing medical attention.

Soon the early morning sun visited Al Reiffa, reminding him Workingham steak and eggs were a wonderful breakfast journey, a proper path to come back and greet reality.

“I tell you, moving the pounds around to protect our literature heritage does take its toll,” Al Reiffa thought, “show ten pounds and they will send me to Holkham Bay out of the money.”

Turning the radio on, the storyteller found out, more thunder is scheduled, surrounding his place, giving him more murder inspiration. Followed by the truth, conscious hinting, the creative mind whispered back, “I get it I am a winner, but a completely random chance I also would be out of the money.”

Suddenly, within a second, Seraph Gabriel appeared with a photograph showing the best secret being discussed, throughout the fate full heavens.

“Look how slim and trim you were, in France strutting the Quai De Bethune Street, you were a winner,” Seraph noted, “then the Golden Gate Steak came into your life, and you started moving pounds around.”

“Are you sure, that comparison is not Glen to Glen?” Al Reiffa remarked.

“No, it's you being out of the money,” Seraph Gabriel retaliated, fairly, “and when you were out of the money, they made you a Texas Dallas Star, bone picker,”

“Yeah,” Al Reiffa smiled, “I would order the Queen Alexandra Steak cut, conditions did apply, “at times they would heat the dish for a second and serve me, Samui style, I would lick the frozen ice.”

“Now that you are sober, why don’t be the winner that you are,” Seraph Gabriel suggested, “and put your real name on that QE2 thriller.

Calendar months flipped and after the computer went through its editing procedures Al Reiffa sat in the local bookstore cafe when Chesham entered, putting on a wild waves hand gesture show, “well look it here, I knew you were not a ghost writer,” Chesham exclaimed.

“No, just a hungry haunting author who will make you wonder, ‘who did it?’”