Print the Legend [antikvár]

July 2, 1961He rose voith the sun as he had every morning since childhood.It was Sunday, and the old man was alone in the house with his wife, Mary.George, his ex-boxer pal, was in the cinder-block guest quarters next door. He trusted his damaged memory on that much.The old man shrugged on his "Emperor's robe," which draped his wasted frame like a red circus tent. He hardly recognized his own face in the bathroom mirrorhis wispy, white, flyaway hair was going every which way, and his smile back at himself was something terrible to behold. Passionate brown eyes each of four wives praised as his best feature were now as empty and dead as those of the trophy heads gathering dust at his abandoned Cuban Finca.He reached for his toothbrush with a trembling hand, then thought better of it: Perhaps the funk of morning mouth would mask the taste of the oiled barrels of the shotgun.Mary had locked his guns away from him in the storeroom. She left the key to their hiding place resting on the ledge over the kitchen sink. He had seen the key there last nightas she had perhaps intended left the key just sitting there on their first night back from the Mayo Clinic. The old man's rattled brain kept wondering at Mary's reason for hiding the key in plain sight.A taunt, or invitation?A characteristic half-assed kindness?He snorted at the mystery of his last wife's motive for making what he