Red Amapola Caperrehearsal Or Unfinished

My F is Carlos Salceda, the Mexican Consul Corps. No, Sam. Well, he will. Tell him it's not what we thought it was. The whole everything I'll get to him as soon as I can. Yes, Sam, you sound so tired.

Are you all right? I am and I'm not. There were too many windmills to chase, too much language I didn't understand, and much too much venganza, which is Spanish for Vendetta, which is English for vengeance.

And any language, it's dynamite with a short fuse. And you knew what was all about all along, Sam. It was revenge. It was and it wasn't. Well, I'm afraid I don't understand. What about the girl? Is she all right?

She is and she isn't. I am confused. Exactly par for the course. But don't worry, F. That'll straighten out like star spaghetti when I come down to say it with flowers dictating as I will my report of fury and ferment on the red Amapolar capers.

Amapolar my pretty little poppies. Oh, thanks. Let's talk to you as I'll be today. Oh, uh, uh, uh, Mr. Salcido called. I told him what you told me to tell him. For more I couldn't ask him.

He understood what you meant perfectly. I don't understand a thing. You will. You know, I may have to trade this stuff in for the keylet. No messing around there. Straight to the point of virtue some people might do well to cultivate.

Just tell me one thing, Sam. Was it a sour cake? Let's not teary after the point, remember. Pad ready? Pencil poised, knees crossed. Yes, Sam. Scared a little bit higher. But all I want to know is...