![]() ![]() “The Golden Tits of America!” Jason Rapsis cried from the shotgun seat. Not far up ahead, two unmistakable yellow arches rose from the murk. Rob clicked the wiper control from intermittent to slow. A fine cold drizzle had begun to fall through it, just to add to the fun. The fog was heavy and smelled of the nearby not-sogreat Great Lake. ![]() Not that this daybreak would be up to much even when it finally got rolling call it dawn with a hangover. It seemed to him that whoever thought that one up really got hold of something, because it was darker than a woodchuck’s asshole this morning, and dawn wasn’t far away. ![]() This elderly chestnut occurred to Rob Martin as the ambulance he drove rolled slowly along Upper Marlborough Street toward home base, which was Firehouse 3. Get me a gun Go back into my room I’m gonna get me a gun One with a barrel or two You know I’m better off dead than Singing these suicide blues. ![]()
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