Cindy-Part 1-again-sorry (Image: Dancing Girl # 3)

Well–those of you who are writers will understand–I hope–but as for those of you who aren’t all I can do is say “I’m sorry,”  but I just decided to re-structure this whole story and had to re-write part one. I often write these story parts and post them without any idea where the story (overall) will be going and the way this story finished up earlier today really sucked–I just had to re-write.

So–here’s part one again. Much of it is the same–but much has been changed. Plus I’ve posted here the entire story so you can read all the way through if you like.


5800 words/10-14-10 Rev.

For no particular reason it came to me yesterday it was the tenth anniversary of my death and the day I traveled through time (that’s right—time travel)—two things I will be unimaginably grateful for until the last time I die.

I was sitting in the bleachers over at Franklin Field watching Evan and his friend Blake, work on their pitching. Blake’s sliders are good and Evan’s late breaking fast-ball is strong but he’s getting frustrated with the sliders.

Watching the boys, I sat there trying to remember the names of the paramedic and the doctor that saved me but couldn’t. Sad—not being able to remember the names of the people that gave you back your life—Evan’s mother is good at remembering those kind of details. What I do remember clearly—what is precious to me—is my near-death—O.B.E.—out of body experience. How often do you get a chance in life to go back and make something right?

I call out to Evan to take a break from sliders and throw some heat for awhile.

The accident happened in Middleville, New York. The police report said I hit the north abutment on the east end of the West Canada Creek bridge at 6:23 P.M. on October 4th. I have no memory of the accident itself or the ambulance trip to the hospital. There was no practical reason for me to be in Middleville—I remember I felt compelled to go there. I now know why.

My little near-death, OBE started out pretty much like the stories you hear. I’m up in the ceiling, looking down watching them work on me—very professional and deliberate—no dramatic dashing around and intense conversation like on TV—just a group of pros calmly doing their jobs. As I watch them work—like a crew of mechanics working on a car—it reminded me of when I was a kid in high school in upstate New York working at Eddie’s Garage. I know as soon as they’re done saving my butt they’ll hand me off to the recovery room, go home to their kids, yard work and deteriorating marriages completely forgetting the poor busted-up schmuck that came in 20 minutes before the end of their shift making them late for supper, PTA meeting—whatever.

After a few minutes of watching them trying to beat, jerk, intubate and puncture me back to life I became strangely restless and began wondering what the possibilities were with this OBE business.

I stared at the big clock on the emergency room wall wanting time to stop—and the second hand froze. The crash cart team was also stuck in time. Sitting there in the bleachers 10 years later I still have to smile as I remember this nurse—standing there frozen—yawning and looking at her wristwatch while another guy—an orderly I guess—is scratching his ass as I lay a breath or two from death.

“I’ve stopped time,” I think. “I have all the time in the world. This is seriously cool.”

I’m drifting aimlessly—the emergency room is fading into white light. I’m trying to decide—what do I want to do—I mean, I’m now outside everyday reality with all its annoying constraints like the laws of physics. Suddenly I find myself sitting—hovering actually—in the attic of my parent’s home in upstate New York.

Something dark, urgent and long buried deep within me is asserting itself. I’m slowly flipping through a long-forgotten photo album. Dating from my mid teens, I am choked with emotion as I stare at a black & while snapshot taken one weekend at a church youth camp in the Adirondacks  a group of us kids attended.

I have no idea now what the camp program was—what the weekend was about—I probably couldn’t have told you then what it was. I went for only one reason—Cindy was there. They say when you get past a certain age and look back on your life it’s the things you didn’t do you regret more than the things you did. For me, in this particular instance, it was both.

As I studied the picture that whole crazy, beautiful, yearning, agonizing time in my life came back to me. I was swept with the remembrance that Cindy was one of the sweetest, most feminine girls I’ve ever known and who I once loved with all the over-the-top passion only a teen-age boy could generate.

But I suppressed those memories and it wasn’t hard to figure out why—I caused her death.

Tears ran down my face as I looked at the photo. A dark, aching emptiness filled me I thought I’d escaped decades ago.

In the picture (which she never knew I took) she is sitting on a long, heavy branch of a willow tree that hangs out over water—the lake the camp was built on. Sunlight is sparkling off ripples in the water and Cindy is silhouetted against the bright background. She is 16 and a little doll—long wavy hair that tumbles down and parts invitingly around perfectly proportioned breasts. She has large, bright doe-eyes, cupid-bow lips, lightly tanned clear skin and is wearing shorts and a halter top.

She does not know it of course—but she has less than two hours to live.

End part one

I drop the photo on the attic floor and focus on it. It spreads and grows and the space it contains expands into three-dimensions becoming the space under me. I can feel the cool summer breeze off the lake rising to meet me. I take a deep breath, exhale and float down into it. For a moment I hover about six inches off the sand and gravel beach enjoying the breeze carrying the scents of honeysuckle and wood smoke.

It is an astonishing experience—finding myself back in that moment in time—hearing the rustle of willow leaves and feeling the breeze coming down from the surrounding, forested mountains and across the water.  Even the sky and clouds seem colored by the passion and endless potential of youth—and the spirit of that time in our history so long ago.

I watch Cindy gazing across the lake and realize she cannot see me. I also soon realize I can observe and alter some material circumstances through some force of will—like stopping the clock—but I have no other ability to effect events in this state. Cindy is sitting there on her tree waiting for me (back then) to join her but that will not happen—someone else is coming. But I’m getting ahead of myself

As is so often the case with boys—I was somewhat less mature than her despite being a year older. I fell in love with her 5 or 6 months before that camp weekend, watching her sing in the church choir. But though I’d talk to her in church and at school, I could never get up the guts to ask her to a dance or movie. I’d bust my butt to find out what sort of events she would be attending so I could be there too. She knew I was in love with her but was an old-fashioned girl who firmly believed the guy asks the girl out—never the other way around.

On more than one occasion at a church pot-luck supper or ice cream social I’d talk to her and drop little hints about how I felt. I was always hoping she’d give me some sort of encouragement—and did a little—but never as much as I—in my consuming insecurity would have liked.

“Hi Cindy,” I’d say. “You look nice—new dress?”

She’d smile impatiently at me,

“Thank you,” she’d respond, “but no—I’ve had it for almost a year—you’ve seen it before.”

I’d stand there trying to think of something else to say. She’d stand there waiting for me to think of something.

“Sure,” I’d come back, “well, uh, I didn’t know you’d be here—did you come with anybody?

“Well, Don Loman asked me,” she’d reply, “but I told him no—I wanted to keep my options open—you never know who you’ll meet at these things,” and she would look hard and impatiently at me.

I knew Don had a thing for Cindy—he had since the three of us were in elementary school together. Cindy saw him as a nice guy but just wasn’t interested in him as a boyfriend. Don and I had hung out together off and on over the years—we were friends I suppose—more or less. Cindy knew it would tick me off to bring him into the conversation. I was taller than Don—and better looking—I had been told. A couple of girls had said I was pretty good-looking but was, “such a dork.”

“And as far as not knowing I was coming—you knew I’d be here,” she accused. “You were standing 10 inches away when I told Susan Bowie I was coming. I’d have thought you’d remember that—I saw you looking at her legs in that skimpy skirt she was wearing.” I blushed and thought seriously about leaving but smiled and tried to be cool.

She was right. I and all the other teen-age guys at that church were always trying to sit where we could get a good view of Susan’s beautiful legs. Susan pretty much had her pick of guys at church and at school—she was very pretty—and what we used to call in those days—a “fast girl.” Starting maybe a little more than a year ago—it became a favorite topic of locker room conversation—any guy she liked could score on the first date and she went through boy friends like Kleenex.

And there was another thing. Susan would often talk to and hang out with Cindy and seemed to be her friend but talked about Cindy behind her back—make fun of her calling her “Snow-White,” Miss Goody-two-shoes,” and “The Virgin Princess.” They were good friends in elementary and middle school then about a year ago something changed. It was weird—at times Susan really seemed to like Cindy but at other times when she wasn’t around—would trash her. I don’t think Cindy knew—or if she did she never let on she did.

Coincidentally Susan lived right across the street from the garage where I worked part time. One of her brothers worked there too and sometimes she’d come over with a snack or drink for him. A couple of times I thought I saw her watching me as I worked but didn’t think much of it. She hung out with a much more popular crowd and I knew she thought I was a dork.

At these social gatherings, Cindy and I would talk about what was going on in her life—like how excited she was to be getting her driver’s license and how her parents had agreed to match whatever money she saved toward the purchase of a car. Every time I met her she’d tell me what the total was—she saved for months. She made money baby-sitting and mowing lawns. She was the only girl I ever knew who earned money mowing grass.

The minute I heard about the trip to the camp I checked the sign-up sheet—then wrote my name under hers. The same day I signed up I learned Cindy had purchased her new used car and was driving all over central New York. I told her to bring it by Eddie’s Garage where I worked part-time and I’d tune it up.

There was going to be a dance Saturday night of the trip so during the two weeks before, I learned how to dance. My mom had a friend with a daughter my age who was a good dancer. I somehow got up the guts to ask my mom to ask her friend if the girl could teach me. It was an incredibly awkward two hours the next Friday afternoon but at the end of it I could steer a girl around a room in a sort of half-ass shuffling box step and could fake a few fast-dance movements.

At the end of it I really was pleased with myself—almost intoxicated—that I had taken a step toward a real relationship with Cindy. I actually felt more confident.

As the camp weekend approached I had my game plan and priorities all figured out. Before the weekend was over I decided I would do three things: 1. dance with Cindy, 2. tell Cindy how I felt about her and 3. kiss her. Anything more than just kissing was frosting on the cake.

End part two

The Saturday morning after my dance lesson Cindy brought the car to the garage. I was finishing up an oil change when I saw her in the waiting area chatting with Susan—waiting to get my attention so she could give me the keys. She had a few minutes before her parents came by to pick her up. I was feeling a bit cocky since I could sort of dance now so I pointed to the coke machine in the waiting area and asked her if she wanted to “share” a coke. Back in those days, “sharing a coke” with a girl—drinking from the same bottle—was tantamount to kissing.

Cindy said, “Sure,” like it was no big deal but I could see she was surprised and pleased at this turn of events.

The screen door closed behind us with a lazy slam as we left the building—me holding the cold coke in a sweaty hand. There was an old car seat out back of the garage under a big Oak we used for our break area. I was feeling a little nervous but as we were walking the three or four yards from the back door to the car seat it flashed into my mind, “Go for it.” Just as we reached the car seat but before sitting down, I abruptly set the bottle on a crate, put my arms around Cindy and kissed her—my first kiss and I learned later—hers too.

She was so shocked and surprised—at first she didn’t respond—didn’t return the kiss for a second—then caught herself, grabbed the back of my head and tried to inhale me. I was astonished at her passion. Before I realized what was happening “Snow White” had her tongue half way down my throat, was running her hands all over my chest and shoulders and digging her nails into my back.

When she finally came up for air she said, “Oh my God, I’d almost given up on you—I thought you’d never make a move on me.”

She laughed and blathered on for 5 or 10 minutes about all the plans she had for us—especially the upcoming camping trip. She had been to the camp before and knew of a beautiful place on the lake shore where there was this huge Willow  tree hanging out over the water. This was where we could find some privacy she said as she straightened my shirt collar.

As she was talking I could see over her shoulder, Susan watching us through the screen door. Susan turned quickly away but just as she did I caught sight of an expression on her face that seemed familiar and made me uneasy. It took a few minutes to think of where I’d seen that look before and I laughed—an uncomfortable sort of laugh—when I remembered. It reminded me of Snow White’s beautiful but evil step mother.

A few minutes later Cindy’s parents—who always liked me—came out the back door looking for their daughter. Cindy scampered off with them—they had some sort of trip to Utica  planned.

I went inside the garage and finished out the day. Eddie—the boss—said I could use one of the bays and the shop tools to tune up and check out Cindy’s car after the garage closed—I just had to pay for any parts.

I put the “closed” sign on the door, pulled her car in and went to work. It needed a safety inspection, an oil change and a complete tune up. The battery looked pretty tired—I replaced it with a good one from a wreck Eddie had towed in a few weeks ago. In topping off the fluids I noticed the brake fluid was especially low. I was on my knees on the floor about to slide a piece of newspaper underneath to see if there was a leak when I became aware of someone else in the shop.

I turned around and stood up—not three feet behind me Susan was standing there staring at me. She was wearing a pair of tight shorts, high heels, a man’s white dress shirt unbuttoned to the forth button and no bra. That same expression from a few hours earlier flickered across her face then turned into sad, lost and vulnerable—like a little girl that can’t find her puppy.

She looked directly into my eyes and said my name in a way in a way that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up—it sounded like she was ordering something off of a menu.

“I like Cindy’s car,” she said, putting her hands behind her back, looking at me through her lashes and slightly turning her shoulders to one side then the other so I could see into her shirt—glancing at the car then back at me.

I didn’t say anything—I didn’t have to. Susan was going to take care of everything.

She stepped over to me and unzipped the dirty mechanic’s coveralls I was wearing.

“The back seat looks comfy,” she announced. “You’ve been working hard. You should take a break with me,” and she nodded toward the car. “You took a break with Cindy earlier—take one with me. You look like you’re man enough…”

My heart was hammering, I was light-headed and more aroused than I had ever been in my life. All I could think of was, “I can’t believe this—Susan Bowie is going to…with me…”

About three hours earlier I had a first experience—my first kiss. That evening in Eddie’s garage I had another first experience. Susan and I had sex in the back seat of Cindy’s car.

End part three

The next day—Sunday—I was more confused than I’d ever been in my life.

I sat next to Cindy in church—she held my hand and snuggled against me all through the sermon and all the time she was pressed up against me I kept seeing Susan dropping that big shirt and sliding down her shorts while staring directly into my eyes and running her tongue across her lips.

I was deeply ashamed of what I had done to Cindy—I mean—how would I feel if she had sex with some guy in my car? But at the same time I couldn’t stop thinking about Susan’s beautiful naked body and the way she gasped and convulsed in orgasm. I actually thought about breaking it off with Cindy and going to Susan but after the service I watched her flirting and batting her eyelashes at two other guys.

I knew I’d been used but all I could do was stare at Susan across the vestibule and think, “Please use me again.”

I had seen Susan’s name on the camping trip sign-up sheet. Fantasies about sneaking away from Cindy and rendezvousing with Susan during next weekend’s trip kept popping into my head.

By Wednesday I was starting to calm down and think rationally. I decided to forget about Susan and focus on Cindy—re-thinking my relationship with her. I was a sexually experienced man now. Cindy was in love with me—just get her alone on a blanket in the woods and she’d be a push-over. My priorities were now quite open-ended.

The rest of the week went pretty well—Cindy and I were able to get in a little necking behind the bleachers on our lunch hour. I was hoping some of the kids would see us and realize I was now a much cooler guy—I actually had a girl—and a few kids did spot us. I was very pleased. We also talked on the phone Wednesday and Thursday nights after school. Friday afternoon Cindy, me and a bunch of other kids were able to get out of school a few hours early, piled our sleeping bags into several cars—one of them Cindy’s—and headed up into the mountains.

The trip up was a ball—everybody talking, laughing, playing the radio full blast—waving at people in other cars—I was starting to socialize better. At the camp we got our cabin assignments. Don Loman and I were in adjoining bunks and yeah—Cindy and Susan were cabin mates.

Friday night was wonderful. There were about a dozen kids from our church and several more dozen from other churches in Central New York—30 or 35 kids total.

There was a huge bonfire—big birch and oak logs wrapped in rolling, orange flames as glowing sparks rose straight up into the starry darkness overhead. A lot of kids were paired off—couples sitting on log benches snuggled together wrapped in blankets. Susan was sitting with Don but they weren’t snuggling at first—but as the evening progressed I saw her clutching his arm and Don had a concerned look on his face. Several times I saw Susan looking at me and Cindy—and she had that look again at least once.

Some local farmer came by and told tall tales, legends and spooky stories about early settlers in that part of the Adirondacks. We sang and drank hot cocoa—when the adult chaperones weren’t looking, a bottle of peppermint schnapps somebody had smuggled in, was passed around. It was a wonderful evening—we all went to bed that night feeling the weekend was off to a great start.

Don came into the cabin a little after me and crawled into his sleeping bag. I made a few comments about the campfire we just came from to get him talking—I could tell something was on his mind. Finally he says he was talking with Susan earlier and something’s bothering her but she won’t say what it is. I go to sleep feeling somewhat anxious.

At breakfast in the big, barn-like dining hall the next morning Cindy and I sit together. She’s stirring her oatmeal with a spoon in her right hand and squeezing my leg under the table with the other. She tells me the same thing—something is bothering Susan but she won’t say what it is.

I’m now having a real bad feeling about this weekend.

There were a couple of workshops and seminars that morning. At lunch Cindy tells me her sessions will end about two—mine will end about three and the rest of the afternoon is free time. She tells me how to get to her big willow by the water and says she’ll meet me there at 3:15. She’ll be going right after her last session to get a little alone time and think about our future. I tell her I’ll bring a blanket and watch her reaction—I can’t see anything that looks like concern.

On impulse I decide to take a picture of her in this special place she loves, so after my one o: clock session I get my camera and run down to the beach. It would make me late for my 2 o: clock but I was going to get a frame and give it to Cindy as a surprise gift. Down at the beach I hide behind some bushes, snap the picture then run back to my 2 o: clock.

At 3 o: clock the last session ends and at 3:10 Don Loman comes through the door of the cabin and punches me in the face.

End part four

I’m about to leave the cabin with blanket under arm, he opens the screen door and decks me. He stands there with his right fist still cocked—with his other hand he points a fore finger at me. I’m lying there on my ass with a bloody nose looking up at him.

“Susan told me you seduced her and made her have sex with you in the back seat of Cindy’s car,” he’s yelling at me.

“Don, you idiot,” I say holding my nose, “do you really think I could seduce a girl like Susan—or any girl of normal intelligence? The only guy you know that’s a bigger dork than me is you, you jerk. You’ve known me since 5th grade—when did I get so suave?

He’s standing there thinking about this. He relaxes his fist and the expression on his face turns to suspicious uncertainty then confusion. He sits down next to me. I lay all the way back—resting my head on the floor to slow the bleeding.

“Think about this you butthead,” I say talking through my bloody nose, “I’ve never had even one regular date, never had a girlfriend, can barely talk to girls. Susan is one of the fastest, prettiest, most popular girls at school. What do you think happened in that garage you asshole?”

Don’s a little slow but he’s not stupid. I see the light bulb go on.

“Hah!” he snorts, “She seduced you. I doubt she had to try very hard. But why did she do it then say that about you?” he asks, still suspicious.

“I don’t know,” I moan still holding my nose and talking to the ceiling. “She doesn’t like Cindy—wants to hurt her for some stupid reason. Everybody except Cindy knows that. I think she’s just a crazy, mean bitch.”

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he says hesitantly,” do you want to hit me back?”

“No, you moron, just help me up,” I say sitting up and standing. The bleeding seems to have stopped.

I wash my face in the adjacent bathroom—Don has sat down on a bunk just outside the door and is looking at the floor. As I’m about to leave he looks up with a scowl on his face…

“But you had sex with another girl—in Cindy’s own car,” he said, now giving me the evil eye.

Shame washed over me like dirty water.

“Don—you’re a guy,” I said helplessly, tears filling my eyes, “Susan is—just so…”

An angry light flits through Don’s eyes. The light bulb has come on again.

“You know you’re really a dirt-bag,” he says looking at me with contempt and pity. “I’m not sorry I hit you after all.”

Then my own light bulb went on. I break into a cold sweat.

“Please don’t tell me Cindy knows,” I gasp.

Don looks toward the door, sort of shrugs and says Susan has gone to speak to her.

“I think Cindy’s leaving the camp,” he adds and stands up.

I run out of the cabin toward the parking lot—Don just walks along behind. I get there just in time to see Cindy slam the door of her car. She sees me coming across the parking lot and hits the gas—dirt and gravel fly everywhere as she roars toward the highway. Don stands back at the edge of the lot with his arms crossed, looking at me, small and alone in my shame and self disgust.

For several very long minutes I just stand there—while the dust settles over me—feeling like the world’s biggest piece of shit. But as bad as I felt then, it was nothing compared to how I felt a few hours later when we got the news.

At 16 years of age Cindy was dead.

The police report would later say the wreck happened because of brake failure—the fluid had leaked out of the lines—which were not repaired because I was busy having sex with Susan. Cindy was killed instantly when her car hit the north abutment on the east end of the bridge over West Canada Creek in Middleville at 6:23 P.M. on October 4th—16 years to the minute before my accident at the exact same place.

End part five

Standing there like a ghost on the beach, my eyes filled with tears as I watched Cindy sitting in her tree gazing out across the lake. My heart ached and my stomach twisted as I remembered how shattered I was when I got the news of her death all those years ago.

I could hear someone approaching from behind—I turned to see Susan coming down the path from the girl’s cabins. I knew what was coming next and started backing away. Once again I was flooded with shame and didn’t want to hear the exchange.

From a distance I could see Cindy’s stunned expression change into tears. For several minutes she sobbed as Susan held her and rubbed her back. Finally they began walking back toward the cabins—to get Cindy’s things before she left.

I walked to the parking lot and quickly found Cindy’s car. I looked underneath and could see the dark, wet spot on the gravel where the brake fluid had slowly leaked out. There was no way to replace the fluid and broken line so I focused on the battery—completely draining the power from it. As the battery died I started feeling like I was trying to remember something. As the minutes ticked by more and more memories came into my mind as the new time line replaced the original. In about 10 minutes a whole new history filled my memory.

About ten minutes after I got there, Cindy came through the pines carrying her rolled-up sleeping bag and duffel. She walked right past me, threw her stuff in the back seat, got in and turned the key. Nothing—as I expected. At that moment my 17 year old self burst into the parking lot, breathless, having run from the boy’s cabins—Don tagging along behind.

My earlier self slowed then walked quickly over to the dormant car which Cindy kept futilely trying to start. Not being able to start it and seeing me coming, she rolled up the windows and locked the doors.

Again from a distance, I watched myself standing by the driver’s window pleading with her. Cindy was covering her ears with her hands and shaking her head. Don walked up and stood a moment observing then began speaking in an agitated manner—pointing at Cindy in the car and yelling at me.

Watching all this I knew pretty clearly what was happening and would happen. Don was telling me to leave Cindy alone—I was telling him to kiss off. He would take a swing but this time I was expecting it and ducked. I would tackle him and we’d roll around in the dirt and gravel like a couple of idiots. Cindy would get out of the car and as we rolled over she would kick me in the side and run off to cry on Susan’s shoulder for another hour.

After ten minutes or so of rolling around Don and I would give it up. I figured (correctly) the whole sorry mess would be all over the camp so I quickly packed up my stuff, walked out to the highway and hitch-hiked home.

Cindy would eventually hear the correct story and never speak to me or Susan again. She sold the car a few days later and got a different one (almost new—her folks felt sorry for her) and I lost my job at the garage.

The rest of the school year (my junior year) was kind of a strange brew. The rumor mill distorted and exaggerated things as it always does. I had been seen victimizing Cindy behind the bleachers a week before so some versions of the mess had me as a sleaze ball womanizer not just bagging poor Cindy and Susan but a half dozen of their unsuspecting friends. Other versions drew me as a sort of high school Casanova and slick operator who just acted dorky to fool people. Some girls treated me like garbage—other girls—girls who wouldn’t have glanced at me in the past—started flirting with me and sticking notes with phone numbers into my locker. Early on, the new attention made me feel ashamed of myself—but pretty quickly I learned to use it to distract myself from the guilt.

Eventually I was able to say, “What the hell—it’s about time I had a little fun,” and made some changes. I re-worked my wardrobe, finally got my acne cleared up and—especially since I could dance now—had pretty much all the dates I wanted. A couple of jocks I had previously known only superficially, ramped up the friendships and invited me to scrimmages and extra-curricular games. I turned out to be a pretty good volleyball player.

Susan left home—and town—that next summer. She didn’t return for her senior year—or any year. The story I heard was she was a biker-chick and massage girl on the west coast for a few years then became a quite successful soap-opera actress. I’ll not share her stage name but if you watch, “the soaps,” you’ve seen her.

Cindy started going with Don—they got married after high school. Both completed associate degree programs at a local community college in the medical field and moved to Detroit  for a number of years. They eventually returned to this area bringing with them boy and girl twin babies.

Following high school I did a hitch in the Army. After discharge and graduation from a couple of out of state colleges I came back here with my wife and Evan—who was born within weeks of Don and Cindy’s twins. Evan and Don’s boy have been best friends since they were in diapers.

Climbing down from the bleachers I decide there’s been enough pitching practice for today—it’s time for all of us to get home for supper. I call to the boys…

“Evan, let’s go—your mom’s waiting for us. Blake—c’mon, hustle-up dude. I don’t want your old man taking a swing at me again.”

End part six. End story

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