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February 19, 2007

2.19.07

You're hanging upside down...

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David: Trevor Lockhart In The Media Of Res

The vine of the native snare trap holding fast to his ankle, Trevor Lockhart dangled precariously over the alligator-infested pit of boiling quicksand.

“Zo, Profezzor Lockhart,” came a voice from the underbrush, “Ve meet again.” A tall, blond man in a black uniform stepped into the open. Trevor twisted to face him.

“Schwanzkreig!” Trevor exclaimed. “You Nazi fiend! I should have known it was you, corrupting these natives and their peaceful, primitive ways.”

“Hardly,” Schwanzkreig replied conversationally. “All ve did vas tell zhem zhat an American vas comink to zteal zheir gold. Zhey begged uz to help zhem fight you.”

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Jim: A Bridge Too Far

If you want to kill yourself in San Francisco, there’s no place more enticing than the Golden Gate Bridge. Hitting the icy bay water at 75 miles per hour ensures an almost instant death.

So I snuck over the pedestrian gate at O-dark-thirty Sunday morning and loped out to a center lamppost. A couple of words to a God I never really believed in and then I leapt over the side.

That was when my ankle became hopelessly entangled in some wire cabling.

I’ve been dangling here for five days so far. And now I think I want to live.

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