Archive for December, 2009


The snowstorm that kissed New York City at 8 a.m. this morning is one that will blanket my memory for all of eternity. It is a rare opportunity to stroll snow covered sidewalks before salt is scattered. It was a wet snow that clings like thoughts of good things. There was little wind here along the Atlantic Ocean. Coney Island flakes, just as they started to mix with sleet, tore against my red face as I made my way up Underhill Avenue towards the library.

The Brooklyn Library opened at 10 a.m. today, due to the New Year’s Eve holiday upon us. I reached the front doors of this institution at precisely 9 a.m. With nothing more to do, and already having been saturated with a fresh blast of winter, I decided to walk around Prospect Park in the falling snow.

There were no bicyclists making the loop around the park; only a few brave joggers with steam rising from spandex were making tracks in the snow, passing me by, as if I were some sort of handicapped person wobbling along without a crutch.

A pick-up truck with a snow plow attached to the front bumper cleared the road that circles the park. The joggers cursed the sanitation worker behind the wheel of the truck who beeped the horn as he plowed on through—“Fuck off!” One yelled, as she refused to give up her lane, on the far right side of the road.

The lake in the park was nearly frozen over. The ducks were gathered near the edge of the water where the ice has not yet frozen solid. They swam up to me—even the large white Swans came near the edge as I stopped there to recollect.

Like a tug boat, a black duck made his way through the thin ice like an icebreaker, leading a train of mallards to my feet.

I wished I had some bread to throw at them, but surely there must be those who come out here to feed them every day—but not today it seemed. New Yorkers do not come out early in the snow.

Inside the pocket of my black Polo coat I reached for a plastic container of green Tic Tacs. I scattered them on the snow-covered frozen lake. The ducks, despite a desire to remain afloat on the unfrozen water, wobbled across the snow covered pond and gobbled down the mints, leaving a chain of most unusual prints, that were in a sense, my signature.

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The porn store with tinted windows located on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn is my favorite store in all of New York City. Its merchandise rivals that of Bloomingdales and like Macy’s, this place should have its own parade.

Gone are the days of communal baths and a Central Park filled with half-naked men running through the bushes. One must improvise in times of desperation, when one gets old and when eyes of others turn our way in flirtation less often.

Even the Mt. Morris Bath House in Harlem shut its doors. A sex addict, like anyone trapped by bad habits, finds a means of fulfilling his or her lustful vices during hard times. Like crack addicts, we do not stop until we get that next hit. Anyone strung out and lonely should pay this place a visit—it’s vintage gay New York—and there’s tons of dick for the having!

Despite the recent recession, the management at this porn store without a name does not hound patrons inside any of the five booths when the little red lights above the plywood doors to the booths go out, indicating that the patron inside has run out of viewing time. In most New York City porn stores with buddy booths, the Indian men who manage such places scream—“Use dollar bill!” and humiliate the poor, who often come to such places just to get something warm in their stomachs.

Management seems not to care as men drop by to channel surf and take advantage of the glory holes between stalls. There’s lots of free parking on Atlantic Avenue and many married men with rings on their way home from Wall Street stop in when bubbles burst.

When the money runs out inside the booths, there is no need to rush to put another dollar bill in the video vending machine. The Indian men here really don’t care. They seem exhausted, and likely have seen it all. All they ask is that no two people enter a booth together.

This place is a favorite of mine because so many of the men are not gay—the black and Latino men come inside only to watch and to let their imaginations go—using us—we cocksuckers, who too should have the right to marry.

Even though the gay community in New York City has lost its sting for being carefree and having focused most of its energy towards the right to rear children and get married, this unique porn store reminds me of the New York City that once was—that magical island where lost gay youth found a home—that haven in heaven that was this town before the city started electing Republican and Independent mayors.

For more than twenty years, and at the risk of ruining my reputation and contracting some deadly disease, I have thoroughly investigated the Big Apple’s numerous twenty-four hour get-off locations for the purpose of someday writing a tell-all book about survival of the fittest. There is no need to write further—this place is exactly what I’ve been searching for – the men are hot, and non-judgmental towards gays—they seem to need us in places like this—and who cares if they are really not thinking of us when they use us. Men have always been like that.

The New David Theatre in Time Square has been closed for more than fifteen years now—gone are the days of being the one true light in a dark room with so much to reach for, but with a glory hole on each side, one does not need to be the star—just the whore who they all reach for as they channel surf.

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Save Money Live Better

An insurer of Hiram Wible & Sons Trucking Company ordered a full investigation into details of the tractor-trailer accident that nearly took the life of Dave Doolittle. A faulty pressure valve over one of several air-breaks was deemed the cause of the accident, but paperwork pointed to carelessness of the driver. Susie Bear, the little girl running in a snow covered cornfield along the Pennsylvania Turnpike was not mentioned in police reports, even though it was her hand gestures that triggered the spill of the precious Christmas cargo being hauled out of Hershey.

A pink slip was mailed to the post office box in Three Springs where Dave considered his official residence to be. He picked up his mail upon release from the emergency room of a nearby hospital, and read the terrible news while still suffering pain from torn tendons, black and blue marks and several deep cuts that required stitches.

Using the sharp edge of a curled lid from a can of soda, Dave removed the stitches on his forearm. He achingly scraped away mounds of healing, yellow and white flesh overriding the sutures, and made his way deep into healthier, red meat, until finally, blood ran. From elbow to fingertip and with the efficiency of a seamstress, he tore away the seam upon his arm, releasing a hem of blocked nerve energy, resulting in a bloody mark on his arm resembling the shape of Japan or California, depending from which angle the self-infliction was examined.

The county sheriff, on his way into the post office was the first to notice the deranged, homeless man. He called for emergency assistance and moments later, the siren atop the volunteer fire and ambulance house in Three Springs signaled three rings, not eight—a warning to volunteer ambulance drivers who lived in town to assemble immediately, for their help was needed.

Dave, at a loss for words to describe his current situation, remained silent and motionless as a crew of three women—Pam Hoffman, Deb Shope and Barbie Walker slowly approached him outside the post office. Pam Hoffman kicked over a half-empty can of soda on the ground and the contents mixed with Dave’s blood and the puddle of type A positive fizzled in a shade of pink. Dave looked upon it in wonder—a sign perhaps of what was to come. Inside the ambulance his legs ached terribly. It seemed they had been amputated.

For ten years the image of sweet blood caked Dave Doolittle’s sad, crusty eyes. Never truly awake, nor able to sleep, he sat motionless for a decade with anger boiling deep within. His very being was being ripped to shreds. It felt as if drops of acid were being released inside his soul—he waited for death—it never came—just the thought of boiling blood inside of him as he remained trapped, under careful observation, in a state psychiatric institution.

“Water,” was the only word he mumbled to his doctors over the decade as they attempted to evaluate him further to assess the effectiveness and dosages of his medications. Always he was given a cup of water to wash down his pills, and always Dave spoke the word “Water,” as if asking for more, but when offered another cup, he simply looked away. Staff didn’t realize that all Dave Doolittle needed to overcome ten years of shock and trauma was a good hot bath.

The showers inside the facility were like the showers at Dachau to Dave, as he remembered visiting the World War II facility during his time in the Army while stationed in Bavaria. Although the showers inside that particular concentration camp had never been used, Dave remembered smelling gas during the tour, and mentioning the scent to his Army buddies. When the soldiers asked the tour guide why there was the smell of gas in the air, the German tour guide replied, “Sie sind es imagining.”

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Although I have read several books by spiritual guru, Deepak Chopra and confess his literary works detailing our cosmic consciousness are on the mark, the diamond studded reading glasses he wears are, in my view, ungodly and gay.

This Elton John of mysticism seemed to lose his train of thought last evening on Larry King. He attempted to explain to an atheist on the panel the difference between the brain and the mind and of course the soul but ended up criticizing western thinking and how we, non-curry eaters, are so ignorant when it comes to understanding the cycle of life.

Fellow Larry King guest and neurosurgeon Sanjay Gupta appeared to support Chopra’s Eastern views on unseen dimensions, reincarnation, the interconnectedness of All, and candles in the wind.

Gupta confessed that from what he had seen on the inside as a brain surgeon, that there is indeed life after death and that somehow, even when there is no blood flowing to the brain, we often think long after we have been pronounced dead.

It was a relief to return to reality and step away from my high-definition Samsun goddess during a commercial break. The sponsor of the show and Deepak’s eyeglasses was the anti-psychotic, mood stabilizing medication Abilify. If I had seen Deepak Chopra before his books, I never would have read him. If only had he described, live on the air, how the spirit of Abilify will save us all, I may have believed that his follower, Michael Jackson, was in heaven.

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Racial tension is tight in Brooklyn this morning. I decided not to report to my assigned job with the city welfare department in downtown Brooklyn this morning because I am the only white trash working as a custodian inside the state supreme court building and I feel vulnerable when black people feel Rodney Kinged.

On December 9th, two Caucasian emergency management technicians who were on a fifteen minute coffee break within the Au Bon Pain café at One Metrotech Center allegedly refused to assist a six-month pregnant black woman who had a seizure while working behind the counter.

“The EMTs just said we had to call 911. They got their bagels and left,” said a co-worker.

The Au Bon Pain café is just a block away from where the city has assigned me to work eleven hours every week for a $200 monthly food stamp supplement. Despite pending seizures of my own, I will not subject myself to the unspoken hostility that exists in the hearts of those who will apparently, forever, see themselves as the only victims in society, nor am I dumb enough, like the pregnant black woman, to take a minimum wage job at a place like Au bon Pain when there are billionaires in this city who can be taxed more so that people like me can stay off our feet and sit on our asses all day.

The story hit the New York Post yesterday. This morning, Mayor Michael Bloomberg appeared on the news to criticize the city EMS workers under his command, who, despite being on an unpaid break from their full-time job, should have assisted the pregnant woman and her fetus simply because, according to Bloomberg, “They took an oath to help others when they became city EMS workers.”

I would have grabbed my bagel and left too, if I had been fortunate to have had a city job on December 9th. I’m a writer. I see people every day who inspire a story in me. I don’t just walk up to them and hold their tongue down with a spoon just because that’s my job. No. There is a time and a place for everything and when one is on a coffee break, one is entitled to relax a little.

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The Story of Dave Doolitle

The seed of David has cross-pollinated with certain strands of Gentile genetic fiber, resulting in a hybrid breed of man with spiritual roots sunken deep in the soils of ancient prophecy.

Intermingling of sacred blood with unclean bodily fluids of the Romans during barbaric wartime raids on small Jewish villages resulted in a most unique form of human species, similar to the vegetables and fruits found in supermarkets today—one that does not rot, one resistant to temptation, and a crop that stays fresh longer on store shelves.

The children and mothers who survived these war crimes turned from traditions of ancient Jewish society and with their inherited gift of God’s promise, and knack for surviving the most brutal of environments, pressed on for generations as the world transformed into a more Christian- Christ based society.

The scattered, half-breeds hid and survived behind the cross of the Roman Catholic Church for centuries. Most such offspring, unlike chosen Dave Doolittle, forgot or misplaced the gifts that God instilled within them when such genetic combinations had transpired on earth in biblical times.

Begotten Dave Doolitte was from a strand of DNA stretching as far back as the prophet Jacob– the patriarch who constructed the well in the Samaritan village of Sychar. Despite his modern name, Doolittle was indeed a sapling from those cedars of Lebanon, whose life the Lord seems to enjoy splintering, yet to society around him, Dave appeared like any other good Christian, despite the unusual form of a cross that he carried.

Like his ancestors, Dave Doolittle had a gift for pinpointing the underground location of water for the purpose of constructing wells that never run dry, like that of his ancient ancestor that runs to this day. Dave, with a forked stick from a peach tree, could hone his hidden treasure and show famers and new home owners in Pennsylvania where to go down, on their property, for the freshest and most purified form of the universe’s most essential element.

For the first part of his adult life, until the age of twenty-six, Dave made a modest living, working as a strange, demonic-possessed sort of Doodlebugger in a barren land of mostly non-believers. When prayers from a Methodist preacher for rain failed, the county called upon its only known prophet—Dave Doolittle—a sinning loon who never failed when it came to a good spring. For ten bucks, a six pack and a few jars of jelly, Dave was called upon, time and again, even by the Mennonite people from these parts, who often consider themselves as the only true masters of such spiritual craft.

On clear sunny afternoons or under the light of a full moon, Dave walked with a stick held high above his long, curly red hair. Dave’s blue eyes fluttered as he strolled one careful step at a time. The blue veins of Dave’s fluttering eyelids, when struck by golden sun, appeared as Israeli Irises growing from clay pots that were his pupils.

The work as a water-witch was hard, unrewarding, seasonal, and paid little. At nights, following days of walking around, waiting for the spirit to trigger a jolt from his fingertips, he suffered from cramped legs and he shivered in cold night sweats, tossing in dreams of endless grey seas.

It was the rubber wheel and the effect that such modern inventions had on the burning inside such men as Dave Doolittle that caused him to abandon his craft—his God given skill of finding water. The stress from driving a truck was so much less than facing the energy that poured through him when he sought water underground. He thought, after getting his truck driving license, like so many church goers in the town of Alexandria where he grew up, that his gift of pinpointing water was somehow associated with evil and the devil. Life was much easier behind the wheel and Dave, until the day he wrecked his truck in the snow, believed that being a trucker was his true calling. He enjoyed a life without ridicule.

As little Susie Bear sat eating the chocolate covered cherries that had spilled from the truck that Dave wrecked in Breezewood, and as blood poured from the corner of his sad, blue eyes, he looked up from his bed of snow to see an endless sky filled with white puffy clouds that seemed to pull from him every last bit of energy left to his soul—that spark that drives us on, day to day, was evaporating like morning dew.

“Hey mister? Are you okay?” Little Susan Bear asked, her tiny red lips glowing red as she attempted to keep inside her mouth the handfuls of sweets that had fallen as manna in the snow that day.

Dave felt something had been lost inside him—it had—his gift of dowsing had been taken from him by God in that crash. As he turned his bruised, bleeding head to look at the fat child eating the shipment he had hauled from Hershey, he realized where the gift had gone—and despite being near death at that moment, a peace that passes understanding washed over him.

(To be continued)

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Arctic air masses and the cold fronts associated with them are atmospheric tsunamis caused by the colliding of the troposphere and ionosphere. The Northern Lights energize a movement of atmospheric currents, sending a ripple of subzero temperatures hurling as far south as Miami. The wind rushes invisibly across expansive prairies of Canada, gains momentum upon the frozen surface of the Hudson Bay, and laps-up moisture from the unfrozen waters of the five great lakes.

This bitter north wind magically gathers in its wake the vapors of Superior, Erie and Ontario, and within the form of pinkish blue clouds, carries a most pure form of condensation across the Upper Midwest. These fast-moving clouds tend to break apart and exhaust all moisture soon after departing the source of fuel found in the warm, freshwater lakes. The snow squalls are like hurricanes making landfall in Pittsburg.

Just a few flakes of Northern Lights snow make it as far east as the little bus stop/ cross-roads town of Breezewood, PA, but there have been occasions when these powerful clipper storms have shed the magic of polarized sleet across this little town that is not really a town, but merely a bus stop along a seemingly never ending expanse of highways and turnpikes that make the Keystone state seem much smaller than it actually is.

Due to the slight tilt of the earth’s axis and the mountains that surround this secluded place of cheap motels and trucker food joints, polar snow rarely falls in these parts in early December. However, once on a blue moon in December there, a chance snow comes down—a storm, like the one in 1972 that originated at precisely true, magnetic North, howls through here. The storms can cover the vast expanses of brown, desolate farm land with at least an inch of snow in less than a minute.

Children of Breezewood including little Susan Bear were watching the cars of holiday shoppers pass through Breezewood that day. Susan dropped a sticky popcorn ball she was eating to savor the first flake of snow on her unusually wide tongue that day. The energy in the bluish flake she ate change her life and gave her a feeling of power in her groin.

She was excited as she tore a hand knitted scarf from around her fat neck as the snow piled into her big mouth with such little effort on her part. Such treats of the gods rarely occur here in early December. This is one of the few places on earth where true Christmas snow comes down—snow formed not with salty ocean water—but crystal clear, fresh, lake water snow – magnetic snow—flakes that sometimes cause the testosterone levels in little girls to develop at unusual levels. This snow out of Santa’s back yard sometimes creates a chemical reaction in little brains exposed digestively to such wonders. The crystals sometimes cause sexual identity to flip and move around just like true magnetic north on the map inside the developing bodies of exposed subjects, like little Susan Bear.
It’s no shock that she grew up to become the Central District Manager of a Walmart superstore in nearby Huntingdon—the job of playing Santa was in her blood nearly all her life. Susan developed facial hair when she was just sixteen—a true sign that one has been frozen by the grasp of that great north wind. Who better to play Santa than a woman who looks, at the age of fifty, just like Old Man winter? No one East of the steel mills of Pittsburg is tougher than her—the woman who makes possible nearly every present under every tree in these parts—the patron saint of shoppers—Susan Bear—the management of Walmart, the new Santa of this new ice age of Christmas we all seem so frozen to.

“A good-paying job at Walmart is better than a poke in the eye with a dirty-stick,” Susan Bear jokingly remarked to the man under her command at the super-store, years after a most fateful day, during a blizzard, when she, as a little girl, had been warned by God that she would never grow up to be a trucker, as was her only real wish in life, at the age of nine.

Billy Emerson, a man under her decades later, was partially retired, living on a generous pension from the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, or ‘Penndot’, as it is known to people in places like Breezewood, and was not the ideal, seasoned worker for a place like the new Walmart store in Huntingdon. Susan Bear, head of maintenance and customer satisfaction, had no time to listen to some over-the-hill line-worker brag about his life-long medical benefits from the state and how enjoyable it was going to be to have not only another good woman, but a job that he planned to keep for five or six years, just for the extra spending money—

“I just got sick of looking at the road in winter. That’s why I quit driving a truck for a living and ended up here, working for you. I wrecked two snowplows during my fifteen years there. It was no fault of my own, but on both occasions, heads of Penndot tried to get rid of me. We had good unions though. I know we don’t have unions here at Walmart, but listen, them fuckers couldn’t do shit to me, but holy hell, I hated winter and working for Pendot that time of the year. It’s warm all the time on this job,” Billy remarked, trying to get on the good side of his new boss. She seemed to detest him already, like his old bosses at the state—but why? What did he ever do to her?

Susan turned red for an instant thinking of what Billy had just said—a touch of guilt ran through her as she remembered that fateful day in December back in ’72 when she was a little girl hoping on a dream in a snowstorm. She wished Billy Emerson would leave her office and go collect loose shopping carts rolling all over the sprawling parking lot outside, but instead, he stayed there and bragged—reminding her of the guilt she never truly felt for the man whose life she almost took when she was just nine.

Billy made it clearly known to his boss as he made small talk that the only reason he took the job at Walmart was to get out of the house and away from his wife a little.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” Billy assured Susan, so that she would have no problems understanding his outlook on life and career was whole hearted. He was not just a simple line-worker working for Walmart, not after all he had learned on the road for Penndot.

“Do you know how hard it is to get a cushy job with Pendot? And a driver of snow plows, none-the-less?” Susan asked. “I must warn you, Mr. Emerson—working here is going to be nothing like working for Pendot. When I was nine, all I wanted was a job with Penndot. Just look at yourself, Mister Man—how you just walked away from all that highway. You retired before 62? How dumb can ya be?” Susan asked, reaching for a cold cup of coffee on her desk.

Her simple mind was re-calling her childhood as Billy talked.

Susan remembered the wishes she had as a little girl—a simple break—a favor called in by an uncle or some other relative who already had secured a secure state government jobs—if only she could have landed such a dream job from the help of some Catholic relative, like Billy Emerson must have had. But how fate works in the scheme of things, she realized—perhaps this is my destiny or maybe irony—just look at the world, she thought—now they all come crawling to me here now, like I’m some kind of powerful, corporate dude willing to rescue their asses from this depression we’re in. I’m getting rid of Mr. Emerson, Susan Bear told herself as he just stood there. I have nothing in my heart for men, she remembered.

Susan slowly recalled what Billy had come into her office to complain about—the homeless man who was shoplifting soap and razors every morning—using the public bathrooms—leaving skid-marked toilet bowls behind that needed scrubbing—but with what shall I scrub them, he asked her.

Not even the high pressure water in Walmart’s semi-self-cleaning toilets could erase the stain away, Billy explained—but there it was, every morning—not coming off—not even with Comet—Out damn spot! Billy needed the salt from those Penndot trucks to get rid of the stains, he explained to Susan who on Billy’s first day of work, was already unbearably sick of him.

“Just get to work? Would ya?” Susan begged. Her thoughts turning again to the snowstorms off the Great Lakes of her childhood—the white roads that gave her the dream to drive trucks for a living—back when she was a little girl, in love with trucks and tractors.

“Hail Mary, Mother of God,” she whispered every time a snowflake landed directly at the base of her throat when she was a little girl. Most of the falling snow would somehow managing to by-pass little Susan Bear’s freckled nose, and three- inch wide tongue that stuck-out in the Applachain snow squalls like a sore thumb.

The girl child’s powdery white Irish skin turned beet red in the wind as flakes that were missing her wide-opened mouth sizzled and popped, turning to vapor over her cheeks and not melting as most snow does when it comes into contact with surfaces on the ground.

“I pray to you, mother of God, and ask your mercy that I not grow-up to be a nun, like mom wants for my life,” Susan prayed as the chilling imaginary communion flakes came from the sky and slid down her throat—“In the name of the Father, I ask to be a father too some day, somehow. And through the Holy Spirit, I plead that I get a Big Wheel this Christmas, Oh mother of God. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.”

When Susan opened her eyes and lowered her head she took notice of a tractor-trailer pulling off of the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the distance. The driver was heading into one of the many truck-stop diners or motel rooms for which the tiny town of Breezewood was known for in these parts.

The lesbian child started running swiftly in the fresh-fallen snow despite a blue snowmobile suit with fourteen pockets, which she was wearing that day. The he-girl’s fat arms were in front of her, curled in an arc like those of a little boy—her mittens were chewed, sucked-on, and now frozen as they smoldered in the December air. Susan waved to capture the attention of the driver pulling into Breezewood.

Across a snow-covered, harvested corn field, the red-haired child trotted—making an odd hand gesture towards the truck as she continued to move in that general direction.

From behind squeaking wiper blades and a warm, comfortable cab, the driver noticed something out of the corner of his eye—an escaped hog from some Breezewood farmer’s pin, he imagined.

Again, little Susan made a signal in the air with her worn mitten—she was trying to communicate to the driver that he pull his horn and sound the silver trumpet atop the truck cab. The long vehicles were far more magical than Santa’s sleigh to her. All she ever wanted was a Big Wheel for Christmas and to one day drive a truck with a horn like that one—blaring trumpets on eighteen wheels. What magic the trucks were coming into Breezewood.

“God, give me a sign,” she begged. If he blows his horn, that means I’m getting a Big Wheel this Christmas and one day, I’ll grow up to drive one of those trucks!”

Dave Doolittle was dying for a fresh cup of coffee and some sleep. The coffee would counter-act the No-Doze anti-sleep medication he had taken when he left the town of Hershey. The treacherous turnpike roads had exhausted him. His eyes were so heavy.

Why is that pig running towards me,” Dave asked himself as his truck continued to slow. He turned his head to glance out the cab window towards the ball-like child waving at him—warning him of something ahead, perhaps? No, she was signaling for something—water? What? Was she simulating the pumping of a fountain?

The truck was still moving at thirty-five over the slick road surface. It was unsafe for the driver to stop and speak to the child. What could she possibly be trying to tell him? As Dave turned to glance through the front windshield again he dropped his Pal Mal cigarette. After reaching to reclaim the burning ember and return erect before the steering wheel, he noticed that the road ahead had been somehow pulled out from under him.

The truck, before rolling over three times, jack knifed, sending Dave Doolittle, not wearing a seatbelt, tumbling out an unlocked cab door.

Little Susan Bear—the little girl who sees light and God in everything—rushed not to help the unconscious Dave Doolittle, but to feast upon the new gift of communion the Lord had just scattered before her– a shipment of chocolate covered cherries, fresh out of Hershey– surely the lord had great things planned for her life, she realized as she sucked each cherry out of the chocolate before spitting the overly sweet chocolate shell onto the snow.

“All I wanted was for you to blow your horn, she said as she giggled, as the man lay nearly dead in a Northeast blizzard on the outskirts of Breezewood.

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