“I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. His sword done with, he took up the bludgeon; balanced it in his hand; upon the points of his fingers; and let it fall with a smash, intentionally, upon the table. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. “You forgot to take the safety off! You idiot! You can’t do anything right!” His other hand wormed out of the folds of Sheila’s enormous body. She heard the television blaring away. That’s got his nerves to rags.
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