79 Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

He constantly wished his name were Drew, but Uncle Joe blithely whistled AC/DC ditties and practically swaggered the farther he got from the Plip Plop Coffe Shop, the more he neared The Rustic Bakery. With a purpose for the moment, songs arose in his heart.
“Dirty Deeds . . .” he whistled in high octave.
” . . . Done Dirt Cheap,” two octaves lower.
“Squealer.” As he trilled, he remembered the girls he whistled at when he was a non-stop partying young buck.
“Highway To Hell,” lent itself to the merriest whistles of all.
But Uncle Joe wasn’t being a flamer, attempting to beat the band and break eardrums. He whistled lightly and very quietly, allowing the high pitches to be nothing but pleasant reminders of the sounds of his life.
“For Those About To Rock, We Salute You.”
Five bicyclists rode into downtown. Joe saw them swerve through the stoplight on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard and cut hard right, in front of the town’s well-respected art and frame shop.
“Or about to die . . .”
He waved at them as they ignored a crosswalk and flew by.


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