FWD: Get back your hard-earned tax-dollars
valegan at a2z4u.net
Mon Apr 19 07:26:02 EST 2004
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This message sent Mon, 19 Apr 2004 17:30:21 +0600 by:
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Marion jumped up. I'll show you.My stomach was jumping as I rang the doorbell. Then Jim appeared. He was holding a tumbler loosely by the rim. He'd changed since we'd last seen each other. His face had fallen inwards: vertical lines ran from under his eyes across his cheeks and he'd lost a lot of hair.We went to a steakhouse a few miles down the road. The hand-lettered sign outside was offering a two-for-one on 32oz sirloins. We pushed through the heavy-sprung doors into a steamy room full of contented Midwesterners chowing down on slabs of meat and baked potatoes. Not normally the kind of place Cath and I would eat at but Jim was happy. He knew lots of people, walking through to our table giving nods and high fives to big greasy guys in jeans and plaid work shirts, winking at their fat pretty wives.Congratulations. Oh, and you, Bill, of course.Marion had her head down again and I could see dark spots on her skirt where the tears were landing.Cut it out, Jim. What is it with you?Not all women, Billy. There's a couple here feel pretty good around me sometimes.You're looking good, Billy. Life must be treating you well. His voice was dusty; it sounded like he was working hard to get it in and out of his chest. How's the business? Still exploiting the workers?Not all women, Billy. There's a couple here feel pretty good around me sometimes.
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