The Fig Tree

French Sicily

Twelve in eight meters of asphyxia from the ceiling to the floor and sides of the wooden table had surrounded the twelve. Window's lock closed and the curtain filtered the sunlight. The pots around the table were white but the twelve politicians were brown inside. The table itself was different. The cups were spinning the fluid inside them, and this vibration went straight to larynxs: an expedient laugh to escape.

"I heard Bishop Eryoldi is translating the Sicily series and gets good money for it, a hundred fiefs per day for each page!"

German wonders were raised. What a charlatan! The Italian Bishop had infiltrated each of the churches of Hamburg and received Italian fiefs for doing lottery for the Jews, and in an inevitable contradiction, the Germans cooked more Jews than ever for this.

"Sigmund said Eryoldi had even been invited to a Jewish house and had a tuck-in dinner."

Maybe the turkey was also grilled. The digested dinner table was spinning around Bishop Eryoldi on the table and at the top of the table, Bishop's head.

Although the purpose of these words was to inherently stimulate the slayer seated at head of the table, but no one has truly smelled the nature of the head seater.

So the bee's nest became more fingered. So much so that the queen bee personally came out and grabbed her gun.

"Sir? Are you going somewhere? To Mr. J-"

"First Eryoldi, then you with Churchill following after. Or do you like it in another order, commander?" Said the mustache man.

"I...I'm ... Sir-"

The capacity of the table was dragged down to eleven with the words and the hinges in the senses threw redness on the table. Of course it wasn't wine, or maybe it was. For him, blood was not far from wine.

Wherever he went, the sharpness of his skin was scratched, and that was exactly what he was looking for Bishop and Churchill and the world as he wiped out the commander from the table.

However, when it came to blood, his nose was stronger than a dog's. So he smelled and the street went faster and opened in the first taxi and whispered to Munkerberg. However, even Bishop Eryoldi was familiarized with the dog's voice, even from a distance, let alone a driver who didn't need to turn his head and obeyed, keeping quiet about the fare. Because if he hadn't, the fare would be thrown in his face and his blood scattered across his own car.

The slayer got off and pulled his gun out of his holster. The lovely PPK had many days with him; However, he was unaware that perhaps the same PKK would take more days from him. But now the Bishop's days were more important than his.

Moments later, the Bishop opened the door and stayed there as he set his glasses on his nose. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, and one thousand one hundred and fifty seconds went on with the combination of the eyes of the bishop and the dog on the asphalt. The bishop, who could no longer allow this silence go any further, coughed: "Heil Hitler."

And the last kiss was fired at Bishop Eryoldi.

"Four hundred fiefs up your ass, Monsieur."

Yes, not only Bishop Eryoldi wasn't Italian and hadn't even been to Sicily, but he was French. Still worse! So he took PPK to his house and took out his cigarette; the twelfth round, he stayed there until his 40th, and flew it with the tinnitus of his blood flow to the 12th; hoping for the forty.