You laugh—that’s a symptom of Stockholm syndrome—and he pokes you with a cruller and you take a bite of his cruller, a chunk of my heart, and he pops the rest of it into his mouth and this is the dark side of your people, you Massholes. You are smart. You know that origin stories are prologue, at best. Hell, you’re writing a book about becoming your own person, yet here you are being his person and why? Because you were born in the same fucking hospital? Because you’d be “faithless” if you went to work at a local place like Black Sheep, where you might acquire skills that would enable you to,
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