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May 21, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 9

This picture was recently snapped for another project site, Inappropriately Dressed.

Let's imagine the life and times of this individual, shall we?

UPDATE - Our undying thanks to Johnny Catbird for much fiddling yesterday to try and get the word count script to be less arse-tastic.

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Michele: I Choose You

“I’m young, strong and fearless. You did right to stick with me.” For emphasis, he plucked an ammunition belt from a dead alien.

The old woman snarled, “You’re a foul mouthed punk. I wouldn’t follow you if you were the last man on earth!”

He was pretty damn close to being just that.

“I should have went with that nice man, Bob.”

He pointed a finger at her. “I’m your hero, lady.”

He looped the ammunition belt into his pants. His jeans immediately fell to the floor, revealing Pokemon briefs.

The old woman laughed. “I’m going to look for Bob.”

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Ted: Going Back to the City

Each shell casing had initials etched into the side. Marco was looking for the people who killed Juanita. Juanita, whom he had known since childhood. Juanita whose soft brown eyes would be the last thing he saw at night as an adult. Her memory would be stained forever by the terrible memory of her body quartered in the barnyard unless he had justice. That he had been away when it happened made it much worse. His dreams of making a better life, a better country, had drawn him to the hills where he had learned well the ways of killing.

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The Eschatologist: Walking the Line

There are seven deadly sins. That's what old Sister Hernandez drilled into me over and again. You know the ones. They get your ass a one way trip to hell.

They've pretty much had their way with me, and I with them. That was years ago. Old news. I've beaten envy and sloth. Gone toe to toe with pride and greed. Gluttony and lust? Been there, done that.

The one I can't get past is wrath, though. It's even eating me up now as I put four rounds in this motherfucker. I wonder if there are twelve steps for me?

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From the Comments - By Adam

Safe? Nothing's safe. The coffee table district's the worst. Folks here will kill you just as soon as look at you.

I try to even out the odds. I keep my ammunition visible so people know not to mess with me. I keep my weapons concealed in the crotch of my baggy pants. I like to keep some secrets.

My Glock, an old Smith and Wesson like the cowboys used to use, three hand grenades and an AK-47 fit snugly against my grossly undersized genitalia.

Just keep your eyes on the coffee tables, folks; You don't want to meet me.

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