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I was gutting mackerel when they came for me, my fingers dipping in and out of rainbow'd bellies, trailing pink as I cried for dad, and island life carried on. My mother, proper in mourning black, stuffed me under a pile of nets when she heard them riding…
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I remember my blood tasting the same then as it does now: Bitter and rich like Guinness. There was music in the way he hit me. My ears would ring well into the next day when he was sober enough to strike true. When the bottle robbed him of that, he made u
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To do the proper set up for the story, it was taking me some time, but each bit was important to the outcome, and while he likened me to Higgens on the old Magnum P.I. series, I just laughed at his slowly closing eyes and folded arm, caught in a half cur
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