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2 h Beach Bambi

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  1. Donnie was always a good kid, singin' in the church choir, helpin' old man Johnson at the deli on Saturdays, hell in the second grade the biggest girl in class spit in his lemonade and he just smiled. Not a mean bone in his body, well until one day he got a call that his brother had washed up in long beach. Cops found him floatin' and knockin' up against the pier, fuckin' pigs ruled it a suicide. But that don' explain the one to the back of his big brothers head. So all bets were off with this kid, he stopped goin' to school and picked up a side gig, totin' pure Colombian around for some big wig mafia fucker with a real fuckin short temper. And so knee caps were broken, competitors rubbed out, and debts paid all by the hands of the once choir boy still with a cross danglin' from his neck. I didn't talk with him much during that time, but I read the news reports. Chaos in the streets, the great resurgence of the great American Mafia they said, all in the heart of a dying city. So many banks were hit during time I fuckin' count, the streets rained coke, and each house on the block had a few fresh bullet holes each morning; fuck there were more spent casings lining the gutter than tricks. Like I said, I didn't have too much communication with him for those years but I saw 'em a few times. Down at McClods', the local pissing hole. Big boss had some shit goin down in the basement, and when i'd stop in after work for a brew sometimes i'd see him. Looking a ghost ina' pinstripe suit, m9 on his hip. He'd glance at me and nod, and i'd nod back but that was it. About a week ago I get a knock at my door around 4 in the morning, and there he is. A ghost in my doorway, I hadn't seen him in a few years at the least. "Get in the fuckin' car" he said, a warm welcome for his only living family huh? "we're going to Landry, pack a bag, do it quick". And so I did, I mean I wanted the fuck out too, i'd seen the news, and those fucking freaks, and if a ghost shows up at your door and offers you a plane ticket out of this fuckin' pressure cooker of a country you'd take it too. We got there, pretty fuckin' quick too considering the MP's lining the streets. He must've been doin' pretty fuckin' well for himself, because this motherfucker had a jet. Now I'm writing this, 3 weeks after we landed here. Well, crashed here. My legs are broken, hes' been dragging us for miles. I know I won't make it out here, but he will. Fuck, we should've just stayed in the states, maybe we could've had a chance. I wonder if it can be worse than here, the dead roam free everywhere here and it seems as though all military presence got fucked. Thoroughly. I'm just done, Finished. But Don, you've always been the fighter, and that's why i'm writing this. So when you find me tomorrow, don't mourn, Just keep pushing forward. Try to reclaim, a bit of that innocence in this new world choir boy. - Tommy
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