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she wandered through the crowd, grimacing. when the setting sun hit her square in the jaw, she remembered how it felt to hold the gun. the hot barrel, the heft (it was not so much tangible, but emotional)...the smell... the image, burned in her retina, it was of him writhing, barely alive. it smothered her. it hung in her head like the sickly sweet stench of rotting meat.
Also by Christopher Moore
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