Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.

Whoa.

The Crimson-fingered dusk of my soul-mate Milman Parry has certain...indicia of unreliability, viz:

Was this, like, Harvard professor of Latin and Greek known to carry a handgun? Was that typical, "par for the course," pro forma, I say was that normal practice, "business as usual" in the Harvard Department of Latin and Greek or whatever in 1935? Were professors of Latin and Greek issued service revolvers by Harvard upon being tenured or something, huh?

Cherchez la femme. The wife was in the other room? Sure, sure, that's what they all say. Why wasn't she unpacking her husband's clothes like a good little 1930's wife, huh? Was this some kind of "modern marriage" or something? She just didn't "do" clothes unpacking? Don't make me laugh.

Why was la femme in another room? What other room? This is a husband and wife in a hotel. Separate rooms? Oh, now we're gettin' someplace.

Why would Milman be taking a gun/his gun to a meeting with his mother-in-law? Arright, strike that question.

"Where are my BVD's? Ah, here they are," BOOM! No. No boom. Sticky-fingered Milman would not have mistook a frigging loaded revolver for an article of clothing! No, I say!

Milman Parry, rest in peace? No! No Justice, No Peace! What do we want? Justice for Milman. When do we want it? Nowww.