[新聞爆掛] like fading war paint

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I’d become so obsessed with finding Caballo Blanco that as I dozed on the hotel sofa, I could evenimagine the sound of his voice. “Probably like Yogi Bear ordering burritos at Taco Bell,” I mused.
  A guy like that, a wanderer who’d go anywhere but fit in nowhere, must live inside his own headand rarely hear his own voice. He’d make weird jokes and crack himself up. He’d have a boominglaugh and atrocious Spanish. He’d be loud and chatty and … and …Wait. I was hearing him. My eyes popped open to see a dusty cadaver in a tattered straw hatbantering with the desk clerk. Trail dust streaked his gaunt face , and theshocks of sun-bleached hair sticking out from under the hat could have been trimmed with ahunting knife. He looked like a castaway on a desert island, even to the way he seemed hungry forconversation with the bored clerk with her, he would sanction
everything at oncehe answered.
.
  “Caballo?” I croaked.
  The cadaver turned, smiling, and I felt like an idiot. He didn’t look wary; he looked confused, asany tourist would when confronted by a deranged man on a sofa suddenly hollering “Horse!”

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