Eva GOLD

G O L D


I got these at the Greek deli down the street.

The one with the sun-bleached jars of olives, the greasy tables, and the goaty smelling gyros.

They keep their fucking tins in the refrigerated display case. That's right. Cold. And when I ordered these with my food the lady asked me if I wanted them open.

Well, now we're getting somewhere.

I put them in my pocket and rode straight home, opened a Firestone DBA, lopped off a hunk of yellow cheese and got down with the fish.

Gold indeed.