He looked furtively left and right, as if we were exchanging classified information in a darkened car park, then leaned closer. “Is it true about Jacques McKeown?” I leaned in too. “It is. He really does rape dogs. He can’t help it; it’s an impulse. I’ve never seen one get away from him in time.” He shook his head earnestly. “I mean, is it true that all the pilots secretly know who he is but they’ve made a pact not to tell?” I was bored with this. I blew out my cheeks. “Kid, if that was true, Jacques McKeown wouldn’t be writing books. Because I and all my colleagues would be shoving them all
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