Phillip Thompson

Crime Fiction writer

I love fall — the weekends seem to slow down with the cooler weather, the yard work is almost done for the year. And best of all, it’s postseason baseball and college football all weekend.

And when I say cooler, I mean a 25-degree difference from yesterday. Overnight, the weather shifted from a gorgeous, comfortable day to a cloudy, windy, “Yep, this is definitely fall” kind of morning — a real eye-opener after sleeping 10 1/2 hours (which I never do) and realizing I overslept and was late for breakfast with a friend.

Commented to said friend that after sleeping like that, then dashing out of the house to meet someone for breakfast — three scrambled, sausage, grits, toast and a gallon of coffee, I felt like a private dick in a Mickey Spillane story. Or Wade Stuart. All I was missing was my trusty .45 and a brassy dame with legs up to here waiting for me in the jalopy.

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