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I remember the sound of gravel crunching

  • I remember the sound of gravel crunching under the wheels as I inched the car up the driveway. I could smell
  • death. Would anyone find out what I had done? I went inside and washed my face. It had been a crazy night. Suddenly, the lights went out. I turned and
  • there he was. He was totally nude from the knees up. Varicose veins meant he had to wear those damned socks all the time, but I didn't care, I loved him. He was my
  • last survivng relative, and no matter that he was a war criminal wanted for
  • water boarding and torture of children--he was the only blood left. The only thing separating them from his bad deeds and
  • tell-all book. Damned brats were playing in his yard one time too many. So, he reached into his
  • pants and began to sling the contents of his depends at anyone within range of flying excrement. Those caught screaming found themselves choking on something unpleasant, then vomit
  • like a newborn baby. Understandably, Sara wanted him to put on some clean pants and clean up the area. Sara was a neat freak after all.
  • But only after her routine cold blooded murders. Otherwise she was a titanic slob with the fashion sense of a cab driver. She pissed in bottles and chewed copenhagan, so
  • went her days. And her nights, as ever, lifted her out of depravity toward that pink ruffled world of six-year-old girls, where monsters are someone else.

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