Lisa was lying on her bed flipping through

Lisa was lying on her bed flipping through her ipod all the while in disbelief that she was even allowed an ipod in this place. Her calandar told her she had

two days left before her second parole hearing. It wasn't that she felt bad about what she had done. Most would have in her situation. But she couldn't help but wonder

if she should maybe begin to feel some guilt. After all, murder was murder. She began to fear, because she wasn't afraid. What could this mean? Was this perhaps because

her Uncle Guido. If any one could figure out what to do, it would be the retired Mafia hitman. Guido lived in Toronto now, but he was always willing to help family. He offered

to come "evaluate the issue", which was mafia code for dissolving someone in acid. Uncle Guido would do it for her too. She would live! At the border, she flipped her uncle

over her shoulder and passed the guard a Hamilton. Dead presidents are always good for something. Uncle Guido waited on the other side, Uncle Paddy rode her shoulder, she felt

Uncle Paddy's hand on her ass. She slapped it away. Then she felt it on her breast. She grabbed the wrist and squeezed, Uncle Paddy dropped. The bones in his wrist cracked like

glass. Corpses tend to be fragile. And these involuntary grabbing motions often resulted in fractures, even when the grabbee was flattered by posthumous attention. Don't blame me.

Amy Winehouse's necrotic wrist snapped like a twig after grabbing my arm. There was no getting her to rehab, 'cause she was dead, dead, dead.