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21 My Murder Poised in the sauna, I didn’t apologize. Bloated gangster, tumbler in one paw and hand-rolled Cuban the other, my turbos smoothing me out like hot-footed geishas. I saw you step up. One night in ten I leave the dog caged. He would have had your throat. But here we are—A Punk Like You facing down The Last Man In The World. What crisp November irony. What hapless days. I toasted you to bring it on. As I slid into that roaring swirl, that heat, I leered once through branches toward twittering stars never more ridiculous. It’s your world now. Welcome to it. ...

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