Return Ticket Punched


Wrote this to Ancasta's specifications, for her "Sweet Charity" auction request. I really enjoyed writing it, so thanks for the request!

Waking was an evolutionary process that did not include an upright stance. Doyle tumbled out of his clammy bedroll and crouched in the garage shadows, snarling.

A hiss issued from the gloom, "It's me."

Ray licked his lips, tongue lingering over rough edged teeth. His left fist clenched a tyre iron, the fingers of his right hand shifted over the balanced haft of a hunting knife. He backed warily away until he collided with the BMW bike, rattling it. "Dedman?" he whispered harshly.

"It's only me," insistently issued from the gloom. Skilled soldier eyes never left the hand wielding the blade. "Don't throw it!"



He sheathed his knife and dropped the iron with a careless clatter that made Bodie cringe. "What're you doing here?" Doyle muttered.

"Outside, now." Cautious, peremptory, Bodie reached toward his skittish partner, snagged the edge of his jacket and tugged. Doyle's compliance startled him, the sudden give in the tense body nearly felling them both. He grappled the unexpectedly yielding form against his chest and felt tremors. Cold. Or perhaps something more primal? Fear.

His state of alarm mounted to high alert. Anything that was enough to frighten Ray was damned to the devil dangerous. Heart slamming violently, vision restlessly scanning the darkest corners, he turned hastily and dragged his partner out of the building. Rolling roils of mist shrouded their escape. They slunk away, crept into the brush, and then distanced themselves in haste.

They ran for a while, until their animal slouch became agonizing, and Bodie was torn between the physical pain of continuing and the urgent need to flee some vaguely threatening presence. Behind him, the sound of a tangled fall into brambles decided the matter. He turned back to offer aid. "You okay?"


"Let me see." Bodie's calves and thighs were burning from exertion. He sat down suddenly, and decided he'd stay that way a minute or two. He reached for the darkness that was Doyle, just discerning the dim outline of the man, curled on his side, gasping audibly. "Where's it worst?"



There came a groan of acquiescence.

"Put the boot in hard, didn't he? Oh yeah, that floating rib could use a life preserver, mate." Bodie grimaced at the pulpy feeling flesh under his probing fingers.

"Got to go back to the garage."

"Like hell you do."

"For the bike. R35, vintage '37. Valuable machine."

"Fuck that. Cowley put me in charge of this op. Pull the plug at my discretion, he said. So you can consider it pulled, as of the last thirty minutes. That bastard Dedman is counting on the bike shackling you to his place. With it, you couldn't leave without making an hellatious clamour, and he reckons you wouldn't scarper without it. Abandoning the bike is our one advantage, and that's not saying much. Let's go." He dragged Doyle to his feet, turned and resumed running.

The wind from the woods sensed their passing and awoke, stirring high boughs to uneasy motion. A tawny owl called to its lover, declaring its mournful intentions "to woo." Although the dregs of winter lay upon the land, somewhere a scent of stirring buds strayed, mysteriously sweet. Beautiful, Bodie's senses chronicled their natural surroundings. Dangerous, his intellect retorted. The pair of them could be killed and buried all lonely out here, and no one the wiser where the corpses might lie.

The sound of Doyle's voice slowed Bodie's forward plunge.

"Not going back for it. You heard the man. Was a definite no."

Perplexed, Bodie stopped dead in his tracks. "Doyle? Who're you talking to?" The sick feeling of being chased through a nightmare scene redoubled now, and he could scarcely focus on the problem, whether to pause and assess the cause of his fear, or to run. The painful sound of laboured breathing was the decisive factor. He turned again to his partner. "Let's have a look then," he murmured, pressing Doyle's face firmly between his hands, finding the glittering eyes, feverish there, and staring into them. "What're you on, mate? Ray, concentrate on me, there's a good lad. Tell me, what did you take?"

"Dun know, do I?" Doyle was glaring back the way they'd come, attention straying, as if he were listening angrily to someone there.

Bodie slapped him once, a slight, open handed strike that stung his finger tips. "Make a guess then. Come on."

Doyle swallowed hard. The damp rising from the turf congealed in his tangled hair and trickled down his contorted features. "Smoked some nasty fags. Sherms, you know, before the fight. Been flying crazy ever since."

Bodie nodded. He hadn't witnessed the preliminaries, but the bout itself had taken place outdoors, where he could watch it through his field glasses. It had been a prolonged, vicious, bare knuckles conflict that left neither combatant standing. "They do that sometimes to the fighters. Makes them angrier, uneasy, more aggressive." More likely to kill each other, he added the mental note. Miserable slime, setting up lethal matches amongst his own subordinates. He'd like to have Dedman's throat to crush just about now.

"Go back for it yerself, you're so eager for it."

"Huh? Who the hell are you talking to?"

"Owner of the bike, pointing his rifle at me, ordering me to go back for it."

Bodie drew his gun in an instant, scanning their perimeter, with all his senses alert.

"Nazi soldier, in uniform, swastika. All gore and creeping maggots under his helmet, where his face ought to be."

Bodie shuddered, uncertain whether to be relieved or alarmed that this perceived danger was merely the lurid product of Doyle's drugged delirium. He holstered his weapon. "Well, ignore him. Maybe he'll go away."

"Hasn't worked yet."

"Come on. We're not far enough distanced from that loony bin."

Doyle rose to his knees before he sank again. "You go on. I'll catch up to you later."

"Not going to happen. Got you to hand, and that's where you'll stay now." Bodie grabbed him by the meat of his arm and hauled him to standing. He got a good grip on Ray's belt, held on for all he was worth, and the two of them stumbled forward together.

"Cheer up, mate. The night's always darkest before it goes completely black," Bodie laughed as the sleet started in on them next. He glanced at Ray's profile and noted some fresh blood, which combined with the rain to trickle onto his upper lip. The two men were both shivering miserably, the involuntary action exhausting the last shred of their energy. "Colder than a witch's tit!" Bodie commented in a convulsive effort to keep up their spirits.

"Trite, that," Doyle grinned wearily. "Come to expect poetry out of you, not that common humdrum tripe."

"Shall strive for brilliance, then, all on your behalf. How about 'Cold as your britches, twit!' Does that please his lordship?" And Bodie gave Doyle's trousers a crotch-stimulating tug.

"Typical. Get me going without a chance in hell of consummation."

Bodie laughed evilly, a low and lascivious noise, utterly in conflict with their dire situation. "Hmm. How about, 'Cold as Mitch's mitts.' Will that do for two?"

"Not bad. Who's Mitch, then?"

"Forward on his rugger team. Tall bloke with icy hands. Very uncomfortable, being next to him in a scrummage, I may tell you."

"Come on, you can do better than that," Doyle challenged.

"Better? Uh, 'Colder than a hitch's bit.' See, it's the hitch to this horse float. And, erm." As Bodie paused for further inspiration, his teeth rattled together in a hypothermic staccato. He clenched his jaws painfully to still the noise.

"Race horse, thoroughbred, good at fences maybe. Hopeful for the Grand Nationals, yeah? And we're co-owners," Doyle suggested.

"Oh, yes indeed. Very posh and exclusive, us, when we're to home at our estate."

"Ride to hounds, do we?"

"Only if the weather is fine enough," Bodie stated emphatically, with moisture dribbling off the tip of his nose when he nodded his affirmation.

"Can we let the fox escape?"

"Certainly, just as you say, my dear Doyle. Ahem. Moving right along. 'Colder than a titch's wit'."

"Don't like that one much," Doyle shook his head, pouting.

"Why not?"

"Used to get called that a lot. Didn't like it."

"A titch?"

"Yeah. What's it mean, in your educated opinion?"

"A titch is someone, um, small and cute, I guess."

"Great," Doyle rolled his eyes at Bodie.

"Well, likely it applied to you better as a kid." Actually, it wasn't that far off the mark now, Bodie reflected, clenching his arm tighter around the lean form of his partner.

They'd made it a mile through the woods, maybe even two. "I reckon," Bodie explained, "that Dedman, for all he's an animal of the lowest order, will make civilized mistakes. He'll count on your staying by that valuable bike, that you'll stay sheltered in a building when weather's this bad. He'll guess that if you were to leave, you'd use the road, and that you'd head for the village. And he'll be wrong on all counts, won't he?"

"Bike was a mistake from the first."


"Too flash. Too flash by half for a skungey prole. Me cover was shot the moment I opened me moosh."

Doyle's casually cold self-critique stabbed Bodie to the heart. Ray was no skunge. He was royalty from flesh to marrow, sleek and smart, with eyes like an ancient Celtic lord's, hands that needed no gemstones to be works of art, a physique finer than an Egyptian icon, and a heart the very soul of noble bravery.

"Not to mention, it's haunted."

Bodie chuckled. "Hans the Hant? Suppose Cowley was not properly informed of that trivial fact. Bike had to be flash, though, your ticket into Dedman's organization. Trojan horse." And Doyle, cast in the role of Greek hero? True, Dedman was an eclectic collector, of expensive motors and exotic creatures alike. His household staff represented a bizarre array of humanity, everything from picture-perfect beauties to freak-show specimens. As long as they were extraordinary, Dedman felt the attraction toward them.

The image of Ray, playing with that gleaming antique motorcycle, recurred to Bodie. The bike had developed strategic engine trouble just outside Dedman's stronghold. Doyle had crouched in the roadside dirt, with his shirt sleeves rolled, lithe muscles under skin anointed in a trace of motor oil, clever hands tweaking the engine to perfection. He was meant to be irresistible. When it came to baiting honey traps, Cowley was a past master.

With a shriek, Doyle twisted from Bodie's grip and stumbled backwards.

Bodie had a Colt Python clutched like a lifeline in his fist, without knowing how the weapon ever came there. In spite of the icy rain, his hand was solid. His throat clenched with accumulated tension, heart slammed against his ribs, legs trembled with coiled power, ready for release, for the attack when it came. He was prepared to enter the fray, eager for it, if only the enemy would show. He bided his time, scanned the forest shadows, listened to the storm slowly slackening its turmoil. Gradually, the sparked heat of the moment dissipated. He became aware of a slick, sticky sensation seeping all along his chest, belly, thighs, and realized he was lying upon the ground, taking cover behind the gnarled roots of a long-since fallen oak.

No one was there.

Sighing, Bodie holstered his gun.

"Herr Hauptmann."

"Ray, it's me, just Bodie."

"He's got oozing clay instead of hands, with worms for fingers, all bloody and wriggling."

"Oh shit!" Bodie shivered over the horrific presence. He wasn't particularly susceptible to superstition, and not at all given to surrender. But he felt a certain urge to succumb, to join in his partner's current madness. Green eyed people are supposed to have the gift of seeing the dead, he reflected.

For days, Bodie'd had little more than stolen minutes of sleep. He was completely done in, what with prolonged watches, crouching in the icy damp, with no more than cold dry provisions to eat. Now, spent and nauseated, he felt a distinct tendency to drift into unfettered sleep-deprivation-induced hallucinations.

His vigil was worth it, though. He had dreaded leaving Doyle alone to Dedman's cruel mercy. The crime boss had a reputation for insatiable blood lust. With his nearly unlimited finances and resources on an international scale, he seemed unstoppable. And lately, MI6 had been eying him, too, looking toward an alliance. Cowley was bound and determined to prevent that, insistent that the man should take a fall for his criminal misconduct, before politics intervened and placed the villain permanently off limits.

This whole operation had been a hastily conceived act of desperation by CI5's controller. He'd sent in his two best agents, and left them very much to their own devices. In such an isolated setting, where the residents all knew who belonged in the vicinity and who didn't, Bodie and Doyle had been forced to approach Dedman with no support other than themselves.

Escaping now was going to be damned difficult.

Bodie only hoped Doyle wasn't slowly bleeding internally, because their immediate future did not include medical assistance. He rose achingly to a shaky stand, and tentatively approached his partner. "Come on, Ray. We've got to get moving."

"He's blocking the way!" Doyle shuddered from scalp to toes. His face a contorted mask of revulsion, he stared fixedly at indefinite gloomy shadows.

"If you close your eyes, can you still see him?"

"Course not," Doyle retorted, implying his partner really was a silly bugger to suggest such a thing.

"Well then, tell you what," Bodie grabbed Ray firmly. "You just lean against me and close your eyes. All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, and I'll keep you from stumbling, right?"

"If we walk through him, all those maggots will crawl onto us."

"No they wont," Bodie pleaded desperately. "They only eat dead flesh. We're far too lively for the likes of them, aren't we?"

"I've a bloody nose. They might want that."

"Well, here, cover it with me snout rag."

So Doyle, with the soggy handkerchief stanching his nose, and his eyes slammed shut, pressed his body against his partner as if in hope of climbing right inside, and stumbled forward again into the miserable night. "Where we going?"

"Got a little hidey hole with a nice tarp staked over it to keep out the elements. Not that much farther, so just you carry on carrying on."

"Please. Want to stop here and rest."

"And let Dedman's goons catch us?"

"Why would they follow me? Don't know nothing, do I? Couldn't find any evidence."

"Yeah, well I did."


"Witnessed that bloke's demise. You know, that ginormous awkward fellow in the fight, Marquis o' Queensbury dropout that kicked the stuffing out of you."

"Was alive, last I saw him."

"Yeah, well, after you staggered off the field of battle, Dedman done him in, personally."


"Yes indeed, stabbed him repeatedly with a wicked great carving knife. Seemed quite to enjoy it, Dedman did. Saw it all through me field glasses. His henchmen buried the body in a traditional shallow grave, right there in the bleedin' herb garden, beneath the verbena border. Prepared to testify in court. Yes, M' Lud, I seen it all. We got him dead to rights, no pun intended."

"Eck, what did he do that for?" Doyle trembled uncontrollably.

"Maybe because the mighty hulk was meant to win that belter match against you, and Dedman couldn't bear the disappointment."

"Yeah, maybe. 'S' horrible. Glad I missed that."

"Too right. You were well out of it, old son, gone off to lick your wounds. Else he might have included you in the hors de combat finale."

He pronounced the word "whores", trying to get a humorous rise out of his partner. But Ray was oblivious, head drooping, muck encrusted boots slogging, limbs lax, only the muscles in his chest tensing against the effort of gasping another breath, and yet again one more.

Staggering, Bodie dragged Doyle over the last mile of their trek. "Now here we are, our little home away from home, all nice and tidy.

Bodie was quite pleased to find the place exactly as he'd left it. There was the scant skeleton of an old derelict hut. Just the lowest part of the hearth and chimney stood, along with the broken portion of a stone foundation. Still, the site had good drainage. Between a ground cloth and a low piece of sturdy canvas staked over it, they could weather out the end of the night in hiding. He'd covered the tarp with muddy leaves, so that the whole was barely discernible, even when he knew it was there.

"Come on, in with you."

Doyle moaned, trying to contort his pummeled body low enough to slide under the shelter. Bodie supported his partner's weight until he got settled, then slithered between the tent layers to lie near him.

"All comfy, aren't we now?" Bodie scrunched closer until every inch of his side had a moiety of Doyle to touch. "Got the motor stashed in a lovely covert just a jump beyond the village. Daylight comes, we'll make our way there, contact Cowley with news of our brilliant success, and we've nothing left then but to reap the praise for a job well finished, eh?"

He listened to the sound of stertorous breathing, then writhed around until he could grope Doyle's throat for a pulse. He felt the fluttering sensation there, like a caged wild bird, battering itself against confinement with a will to escape. Then he let his hand wander into sodden, tangled curls, and petted them, the act of comfort, shared, a soothing release.

The roaring gale hovered between raving lunacy and reluctant surrender. Resolution failed again, the elements railed, breaking furiously against the solid rock of the planet. The tarp, an insignificant scrap of frail fabric, trembled at their backs, tenuous cover against destruction.

Bodie succumbed to oblivion then, frozen, unaware, dreamless, motionless, emotionless. Noise at last intruded upon his isolation, but even that was perceived over a distance. It was a mingling of the storm's voice with his partner's muttered ramblings. Bodie thought Doyle had left their shelter, was standing in the rain, wandering off into danger. He wanted to draw him back, but knew he couldn't succeed.

"Can see the dead. Why is that? It's all owing to time, isn't it? See, it's all there, the now and the past and the future, woven. Or maybe it's like walking over a stretch of road. You can see just the bit you're on at the moment, but you know the rest is there, behind and before you, on and on. So when we're dead, maybe we can choose a piece we want to linger over. Let's agree to meet, you and me, Bodie, when we're dead. Reconnoiter, a rendezvous. Some nice little slice of our time, sitting in that pub by the river, remember that? Warm hands, and dry boots, and wet whistles, a half of stout apiece. A little steaming supper just about to arrive in the hands of a lovely barmaid. And you and me, knee to knee. Us, yeah, us together always, laughing about something foolish, chatting. It's good that, so fine. Let's agree to meet, when we're dead."

Aw, Ray. Bodie wanted to touch him, see him, speak to him. But his hands and eyes and heart were all frozen in solid dark ice, and all he could do was listen.

"Bastard! You enjoy hurting people. Gives you a nasty thrill, doesn't it? Makes you feel all great and tall and strong, crushing us under your boots."

No! Hate that, hate when you hurt, makes me hurt, makes me cringe. Bodie tried to shake his head, but it was buried in ice, glacial layers, tons of it, with a winter epoch, a whole ice age, adding more and more to weigh him down. He remembered hitting Ray. Slapped his poor bruised, broken face, hadn't he? But didn't mean it that way. Sorry, I'm sorry.

"How many have you killed? Dozens, hundreds, or more? Tortured? Laughed at their agony, washed your hands in their blood. I'm coming after you, taking you down."

Bodie told himself Doyle was on the move. Solo op, alone, unaided against their enemy. Had to be that, because Ray could never think his partner would hurt him. No, impossible. Must be something else.

Then a decadent voice sounded, arrogantly upper crust, invidious, sinuous as a serpent's hiss. "I took your side, killed your enemy for you. As a result, I'm down a man, a valued member of my operation. You owe me, and yet you left. Desertion is inexcusable. It is time now for your punishment."

Had to be, had to be, had to be Dedman. He'd followed them, found them.

Dedman was here.

Alarmed, Bodie startled awake. With the storm to drown out his stealthy moves, he searched his side, the tent confines, confirmed he was alone. He inched forward until he could peer out, scanned the foggy ground before him. Nothing, no one was there. He eased out of their shelter and crouched. The wind slid over the icy ground and flung frozen shards, stinging his face and hands. His gun, there. He had it out, clenched in both hands.

As if Bodie had suddenly chanced upon the correct slice of time and could see them now, the two bodies materialized from the swirling mist. Dedman, licking his lips and sneering, stood solid and menacing. Doyle confronted him in a raging fury.

Too close, too close. At this range, the Colt would blast a hole through both men, and maybe splinter the gnarled oak trunk behind them as well. Bodie reluctantly holstered the weapon. Could strangle the homicidal bastard with bare hands. Why not? Keep him talking, Doyle. That's it, that's it, easy now.

He gathered the force of life and death in his hands, then carelessly tossed aside the portion that was life. You or me, here goes. "Look out!" he shouted to warn Ray, and flung himself bodily at Dedman.

They tumbled chaotically, sprawled, and then gathered themselves, snarling threats. Bodie kicked and elbowed, felt the viscera give and rebound, until he was within spitting distance. He slashed at vulnerable flesh with his nails, bit a finger to the bone and tasted iron, felt the crunch and grind. Then they were exchanging hard knuckled blows, pounding each other to pulp.

Bodie faced the enemy, retreated and faced him again. A sudden helpless slide, his foot slipped through the slush. Twisted, he overbalanced and fell into Dedman's grip. He felt the strangle hold settle and lock, throttling his throat.

Bodie writhed, struggled violently, lost ground, choked, felt himself sinking.

An unearthly howl rent the air.

Huddled in the grimy detritus, he found himself gasping. He rose to his haunches, sat back, groaning, with the ice on the wind slicing into his lungs over desperate dragging breaths. He spat out a glob of blood and slimy rheum, then swiped the back of his hand across his pummeled face.

He'd been losing, asphyxiated, lost, dying, and now he was free. Not dead yet, he told himself. No, not dead. But how was that?

Spread before him in glorious gore was Dedman. The corpse twitched repeatedly, not registering the fact that it was already deceased. The lethal instrument protruded; overshadowing contorted facial features was the balanced haft of a hunting knife. Affixed in place, the skin split, the eyeball enucleated, vitreous jelly dribbled over a bloody cheek. The blade pierced the posterior orbit and frontal lobe of the brain alike. At last halted in flight, it held there, buried with the hilt crushing the maxillary prominence.

Forceful, bizarre, phenomenally accurate, it had been one hell of a throw.

Doyle wavered, staring down at the grotesque remains. "Herr Hauptmann? Thought you'd gone back for the bike." He turned away. "Didn't think anyone could kill a ghoul. I didn't think it." He tried to walk a step, stumbled, and fell. "Not sorry," he muttered. "Not sorry."

Bodie staggered over to him, reached down and helped him to his feet. He sought the confused eyes, stared into them. "It's Dedman, see? Not your damned apparition. And he was trying to kill me, mate. You dropped him quick sticks, like a good 'un, so that's that, and all that."

Doyle's lower lip trembled. "Dead man?" Puzzlement crumpled his features. "I killed a dead man?" His head fell forward until it rested on Bodie's shoulder.

Bodie patted him on the back. "That's all right, mate, but I think we'd best move on. If he's got goons searching for us, we may not be out of the woods yet. Get it, 'out of the woods', eh? That's brilliant, considering the hour and the conditions, you know? Come on, here we go again." Coaxing, he turned his reluctant partner away from the gory scene.

Bodie felt that he'd gone so hard and long, he'd run right off the edge of the universe and on into nothingness. Images of dead criminals mingled with the corpses of enemy soldiers and murdered henchmen, spun into a violent hurricane that raged across the landscape, sucking up trees and rocks and downpour and clouds until nothing remained except his forlorn striving.

Across an empty expanse, he tottered forward, dragging his burden toward a perpetually distant destination.

Dawn's arrival astonished him. The first gleams of pure silver brightened a horizon he had feared lost forever. The outline of towering trees returned next, which shifted from coal black to shades of grey, then verdant hues and umber outlines. The polished sky took on glosses of vermilion and gold. A softer breeze than any he could remember caressed his cheek.

Unfortunately, the cool touch only served to remind him of the pounding he had suffered. Gingerly he fingered the stiff swelling across his nose and mouth. As he gradually focused on the nearer distance, the realization came to him. "Finally! There's the motor."

He leaned Doyle's stuporous form against the car, and hastily cleared away the camouflaging branches and dried scrub.

"Come on, right inside. We're in barley now, old son." Once he'd got them both seated, Bodie collapsed against the steering wheel.

"Want me to drive?" Doyle chuckled hoarsely.

"Absolutely not, you're chemicked still."


Bodie dozed, and woke to find the steering wheel forcing a definite imprint into his swollen cheek.

"Ey," Doyle mumbled. "I been thinking about something. Time, right? I mean Time with a capital T. Because it makes no sense for me to see a man that's been decades dead, unless it's all still there. Has to be that they're together, what's now, and the past and the future, all at once. I think seeing things over time, it's maybe like walking over a stretch of road. You can see just the bit you're on at the moment, but you know the rest is still there, behind and before you, on and on. So when we're dead, maybe we can choose a piece we want to go back to and linger over. So, tell you what. Let's agree to meet, you and me, when we're dead. Rendezvous, just the two of us, okay? You can choose the place in time, some point that's pleasant, I don't mind which, so long as we're both there, right?"

"You already told me that before."

"No I didn't neither. Only just thought of it, didn't I? And spoke up straight away."

"Oh. Well then, maybe I came back here after we're both dead, and I heard you say it and that's why I think you said it already?"

"Perhaps, yeah. Was it a long trip? Out to the time of our deaths and back again?"

"Seemed like it, quite long."

"So maybe that means we'll make old bones after all, despite the odds?"

"Now there's a pleasant thought."

"But why the hell would you choose this bit to revisit? I mean, look at us, drenched to the skin, mucky, half frozen, beaten bloody, too knackered even to drive away, with a trail of butchered corpses in our wake. Have just got to say, Pretty Willem, if yer fond of this here, you've a weird sense of sentimentality!"

There was something good about to happen. Bodie knew it, just knew it, and so he waited. He pursed his lips, a comical facial expression with one eyebrow cocked, and stared at Doyle.

Just then the sunrise passed the horizon in a dazzling array of warmth and light. Doyle tilted his head, studying his partner's odd mood. And gradually, a small, lopsided smile formed on Ray's lips. It was a display of deep affection that illuminated his features and brought a fiercely fond glitter to his eyes.

It was something that Bodie loved. At that moment, being the recipient of that look seemed priceless, beyond any mortal measure of value, well worth the hardships of the journey, something that merited a return trip, even from beyond the edge of the universe.

However, Bodie just shrugged at Doyle. "Hey, we made it. Seems pretty good to me." And then he started the car.

-- THE END --

March 2008

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