Thanks to a hundred-foot drop and an unfortunate placement of rebar, I had another image to add to my things-I-can-never-unsee collection. In my own defense, the first dead guy I saw had fallen to his death at a construction site in Kalamazoo. P would scream like a twelve-year-old girl and lock himself in a bathroom. He was a tough-as-nails, real-life superhero, and I couldn’t picture any situation in which Mr. More depravity and desperation and degradation. I admired the rascally old man, a decorated war veteran and retired NYPD detective. I screamed like a twelve-year-old girl and locked myself in the bathroom. He could react the way I did the first time I saw a walking corpse a little over a month ago. It wasn’t every day a dead stripper accosted one of my regulars, but telling Mr. Pettigrew, about the dead stripper sitting next to him. I stood beside the booth and poured coffee into a beige cup that had the words FIRELIGHT GRILL written across it, wondering if I should tell my customer, Mr. Remember, it’s never too late to give LSD a shot.
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