Upon a foggy mountain-side stands a Bedouin warlord, belly full of desert oats and troubled heart fed with centuries of spiritual anxiety. He taps the dust from his ragged boots using an aged Russian rifle hanging from his shoulder, then gazes to the horizon, his soul crying for pleasures never felt; the touch of a you… Read more

Upon a foggy mountain-side stands a Bedouin warlord, belly full of desert oats and troubled heart fed with centuries of spiritual anxiety. He taps the dust from his ragged boots using an aged Russian rifle hanging from his shoulder, then gazes to the horizon, his soul crying for pleasures never felt; the touch of a young gypsy girl, the spectacle of a snowstorm, the taste of lightly buttered crab from a New England fishery. Petka is that crab.