A remittance man. She lit the cigarette with a tiny Kelly green drugstore lighter. He was twenty-nine at the time, practically an old man. But death is better for them, since they’re orphans now!” He screamed. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. Glorious! The Pastoral. “I believe that you are right,” he said softly.
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