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Jimmy gave a nod and sat down in his car. “This fucking shithead,” he muttered to himself as Michael backed out of his driveway.
“This fucking shithead,” he muttered again as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening under the squeeze of his forearm flesh.
“Fucking shithead,” he muttered as he struggled out of the car.
For, try as they had to restrain them, and struggle as they might to deny them, days of reckoning, like all things inevitable, without exception, ultimately arrive.
