Oh, God. “I’ll tell you what I believe,” I said, with venom born of a restless night, a sorry ache in my head, a sorrier one in my hand that even now began to burble and spit, fat slow silver bubbles and I said it again, “I’ll tell you what I believe. That nobody knows anything about anything more complicated than breathing in and out, and especially not about that fucking Funhole down there, and that includes Nakota, that practically defines Nakota, am I going too fast for you or what?” and I hurled the beer so it barely missed the TV, one of my rare displays of temper but it pissed me off,
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