The Return of Morag McDoone. She was a bitter, drunk, Scotswoman, was Morag McDoone, who got more drunk the more bitters she imbibed. Her father Mickey rued the day he had filled Her coffee with salt. Disgusted, she started a campaign for the UN to make putting salt in coffee a war crime. A UN official then told her that putting salt in coffee couldn't be made illegal, because that would be discrimination against salt. Putting salt on slugs couldn’t be illegal, that’d be discriminating against salt. Putting poison in drinks couldn’t be made illegal, that would be discrimination against poison. wait. What was I thinking. Of course that's illegal. But who cares about the law? I sure didn't, as was proved by my sprinkling of arsenic in Miss Halvor's glass before the party. A bit of an old-fashioned way to do someone in but it was the only thing I had at the time. After all, I didn't spend hours googling 'gruesome ways to die' to stick to cliches. Per suading my partner-in-crime Stefan to assist in this murder wasn't going to be easy. Apparently, "But I really wanna!" was not sufficient cause in his mind to commit such a heinous act. I accused Stefan of making a false equivalency between a heinous act and murder for pleasure. "Really," I told him, "if you keep the focus on the pleasure the murder is just a great big rush to the nutsack.” Stefan pierced his lips and wrinkled his brow, “One must control one’s urges, if not I might be coerced into snapping your neck like a pretzel.” and so sang the last bird in the last tree of the last dawn where not one hankering for violence lingered, just that song, and then, the silence,

 

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1 Woab's photo

and all because of Morag McDoone.

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