today you beat the fortune teller to death with your bare hands. was it his smirk laugh or the ostrich feather taped to his purple hat? he read the lines on your palm, chanting a creole song, "it is soon you will die, and angels don't take bribes." don't linger on the skylight you smashed between his eyes. just run into the alley and tell jokes to the bricks and rats. because one man's murder scene is another's champagne party. one man's butchered spine is a soldier's war decoration!

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