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December 4, 2006

Tanya: Untitled

There were seats for the victim’s parents and brother, a seat for his wife. She didn’t bring their kids to watch. There were even seats for the murderer’s family.

Unsurprisingly, there was no seat for the victim’s eighth grade girlfriend.

The prison was only two miles up the road, but I couldn’t go there, and sit with the hippie morons that wanted to spare his miserable life. So I sat in my living room and waited for the telltale flicker of all the lights in the house. And then I drank a toast, when I knew they’d fried the bastard.

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