“We bear the march of ideas,” said the old crone mysteriously. “No, wait, that…” She double-checked the smudged writing on her hand.
“Wow, that’s really deep, actually. I’ve been thinking about writing a book, that would make an awesome starting point.” Caeser was completely oblivious to her error.
Now she had to try and correct course. “Oh, no, I got that wrong. Beware the ides of March. That’s what I’ve been seeing. Middle of the month, gonna be a doozy. A bad cold, perhaps, say, a stabbing.”
“Okay but back to that first thing,” Caesar barrelled on.
The witch sighed. “Sure. Sure, kid. If you live long enough to write a book, go for it. That one’s all yours, free a’ charge.”
“Yeah~ Hail to me, baby,” he said without a trace of irony, putting on sunglasses and tearing off down the road in his obnoxiously loud Harley. He did a wheelie - the son of a bitch actually did a wheelie. Maybe he deserved what was coming.