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June 10, 2005

From the Comments: Hubris

It looked like today’s outfit would involve holding a gun like the soldiers in the fading pictures on the wall, which all included a younger, scantily clad version of Old Woman.

Old Woman’s fingers poked and prodded. The sound system hidden among the wicker furniture pounded out an unrelenting mix of steel guitar, banjos, and Old Woman’s own warbling voice, the voice that seemed to burrow its way directly to the center of his brain and burst vessels there. Ah, life in Boca Raton.

Palm fronds brushed the window, forever out of reach. He wished he could smoke, at least.

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