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Hello, my spookies. Can you believe it? Halloween is right
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around the corner, just days away. The decorations are up,
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the candies mysteriously half gone, and every night feels just
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a little more like a horror movie in the best
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way possible. And you know me, I can't let the
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season slip by without turning things up to maximum spooky.
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So tonight we're going all in with a weekly spooky
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novella compilation, three full length horror stories to sink your
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teeth into while the moon's still high and the pumpkins
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are still fresh. First, we hit the streets for a
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midnight joy rock with fangs in Vampire Night. Then we
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drift into the final Yes, a chilling reminder that not
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every offer of love or immortality should be accept And finally,
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where the snow begins to fall, we'll find what happens
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when vengeance refuses to stay buried in blood and snow.
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So light a candle and pour something dark and delicious.
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It's time to get cozy. Halloween is practically breathing down
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our necks, and that's how we like it. Vampire Night
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by Joe Rustin from New Dynamic Press, narrated by Enrique
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Cuto prologue. The jet black Impala tears through the Cleveland
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night like a bat out of hell, the headlights off
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making it practically and visible. It whips down Frankfort Avenue
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at speed, flying right on past the do not enter
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sign of the one way road, spoiled for choice. When
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it comes to parking, it veers right into one of
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the lots, narrowly avoiding the parking attendant on duty. The
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scrawny guy jumps backward just in time, saving himself from
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getting clipped by the front bumper. The Impala doesn't stop,
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It doesn't even slow down. It continues on into the
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lot proper and heads toward the far end, near the
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fence that encloses it, and pulls into a spot. It
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idles for a moment, then shuts off, the previous roar
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of the engine, dying and allowing the relative quiet of
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the night to settle in. After a few moments, the
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driver gets out, a tall man in a leather jacket
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a pair of sunglasses on. Despite the overwhelming darkness, his
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name is Colgan, not that he ever offers it to anyone.
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He circles around to the back of the car. Once there,
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he fits the key into the hole on the trunk,
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gives it a twist and opens it up. The inside
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has been customized, the sides padded with pink velvet, giving
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it an almost casket like appearance. Entombed are two women, who,
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upon the trunklet opening, begin to unfurl their limbs from
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one another and climb out, hands lazily, attempting to fix
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their messy hair and wrinkled clothes Maxine rock Sand he says,
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the first is attempting to get her mohawk to stand
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back up. The latter is fixing the chain on her
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nose ring. Without needing an invitation, he kisses one, then
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the other. By this time the parking attendant is caught
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up to them. He approaches, angry and out of breath,
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and immediately launches into a slew of complaints how they
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they were going the wrong way on a one way,
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and how they almost hit him with their car, and
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how they need to pay the fee to park here.
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Colgan doesn't rush kissing rox Anne. If anything, he prolongs it.
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The attendant stands there, fuming but not sure what to do.
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In the absence of an actual idea, he just beerates
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them some more. Are you even listening, moron? Apparently not, hey, jackass.
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The attendant reaches out and grabs the man by the shoulder,
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making a valiant attempt at giving him a rough pull.
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It's like trying to move a brick wall slowly. Colgan
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loosens his lips from ROC's hands and turns to stare
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at the man, a smear of lipstick on his close
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lipped smile. What happens next happens fast, practically in the
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blink of an eye. Colgan catches the wrist of the
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offending hand and then effortlessly twists it to the side.
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The sickening crack of bone sounds, and the attendant lets
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out an agonized scream. It turns into whimpering soon enough,
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as Colgan continues squeezing his arm where he's broke it,
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driving him down to his knees. When the attendant looks up,
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face twisted in pain, it's to three smiles leering down
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at him, though there's something off with the expressions. It's
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the teeth, he realizes. The teeth are wrong, like some
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kind of childhood nightmare come to life. They're thin and sharp,
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like needles. Colgan rips the attendant forward and past himself,
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slamming him face first into the rear bumper of the Impala.
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He grabs him by the back of the head next
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and effortlessly lifts him up just enough to clear the trunk,
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before driving his throat down against it and then slamming
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the lid like a makeshift guillotine. Doesn't behead the attendant, though,
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simply biting into the flesh on the back of his neck.
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He cries out, blood from his broken nose, flying out
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into the velvet lined interior of the trunk. His voice
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echoes around himself in his panic, The attendant doesn't at
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first realize that he isn't alone in the trunk. No,
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there's someone else stuffed far into the back, a woman.
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It looks like her uniform saying seven to eleven. Her
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dead eyes stare at him, glossy like marbles. Her throat
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is a mess of dried gore. The trunk lid is
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lifted off his neck, and the attendant tries to push
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himself up with his one good hand, struggling against his fate.
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Before he can make anything resembling an escape, though the
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two women descend upon him. Chapter one, You're a Hot
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Mess Jessica, you know that. Don't talk to me, Amy,
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I can't piss if you're talking to me. The clerk
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at the BP station the one caddy corner to Progressive
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Field is a liar. He tells the girls Amy, Megan, Zoe,
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and Jessica. She's out of sight, presently duck down on
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the other side of the car, pants around her knees,
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trying to take a leak in public, that they don't
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have an indoor bathroom. That part is true. They do not,
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in fact have an indoor bathroom. Amy made sure to
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ask multiple times for clarification, and each time got the
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same exact answer fed back to her. The lie is
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when the boy behind the counter he couldn't be any
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older than eighteen or nineteen, so he doesn't care. He's
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thinking about his next math test, probably tells them that
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it should be clean, considering it had been emptied out
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earlier this week. His words don't exactly stand up to scrutiny.
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If it's been emptied out this year, Amy would honestly
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be shocked. What she saw in that porta potty will
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haunt her for years to come. She fully expects to
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wake up in the middle of the night, coming off
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a PTSD nightmare, drenched in a cold sweat. Yes, she's
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being dramatic, but still she leans back against the Toyota
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parked off to the side of the pumps front bumper
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aimed at Carnegie Avenue, fully expecting to see FEMA vehicles
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pull into the otherwise empty lot any second to cordon
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off the thing and declare it a disaster area. She
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says as much as she passes her cigarette to Megan, who,
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after a puff, passes it on to Zoe. It earns
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her a few giggles. It's mid July and late evening,
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a hot, sticky day creeping steadily into a hot, sticky night.
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The dog days of summer are upon them, and Cleveland
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has become a swamp. The asphalt from all the road
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acts as a heat sink. The moisture rolling in off
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Lake Erie offers up all the humidity anyone could ever
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want put together. The city seems to be trying to
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steam its population like broccoli. The sound of urine splashing
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the concrete punctuates their idle conversation. I can't believe you
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got us kicked out of an Applebee's, Amy says, as
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the cigarette returns to her. Technically it was Jessica. Megan counters,
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Come on, guys, I'm trying to focus. Here comes a
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quiet voice from behind the car. It's honestly kind of
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impressive when you think about it, though, Zoe offers, I
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didn't even know Applebee's did kick people out. I thought
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it was like waffle House. You know, you do something
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outrageous and they give you a free meal or something
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for entertaining the guests. Well, the guests were entertained alright,
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Amy says, passing the cigarette to the left. You'd think
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they'd never seen tits before. Megan remarks, before taking a puff.
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Probably never seen them at the Applebee's bar, that's for sure.
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You shouldn't encourage her when she's drunk, Amy continues, You
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know how she gets, no, Amy, how do I get?
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Jessica's words are spoken slowly as she struggles to her feet,
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bouncing her ass off the car several times before she's
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fully upright. She manages to get her pants back up
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around her waist before she circles around the car. Her
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eyes are glassy, her hair's slightly a mess. She takes
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the cigarette right from Megan's lips and sucks the last
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bits of life from it before flicking the butt out
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toward the road. Too much fun for the average person,
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Amy offers that seems to satisfy her. She finds her
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grin reflected in Jessica's face. It's been a day and
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it isn't over yet. They've been at it since five o'clock,
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and this time at the gas station is the biggest
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lull their evening has had. No one's ready to call
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it a night, though. This could be the last time
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they get to hang out, all of them together like this,
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so making it last, even if that means they're going
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to have the hangover to end all hangovers in the morning,
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it's worth it to Amy's left the whole reason they're
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out and about hitting up the bars of their youth
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where they used to have to use fake IDs, and
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now they don't even get carted. Megan short, round blonde hair,
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a big, toothy smile, the sweetest girl in the world, really,
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at least that's what Amy thinks. Also one of the
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craziest bitches she's ever met, but that's neither here nor there.
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There's an engagement ring on her finger and a doctor,
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specifically a somnologist whatever that is waiting at home for
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her whenever their girl's night comes to an end. The
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plan is, after they say their vows, they're getting the
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hell out of Dodge. Megan soon to be hubby Brett
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has taken a job down in Springwood, and while that
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isn't necessarily far away, it's far enough. The promises of
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I'll keep in touch are well intentioned, but no one
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is kidding themselves. Life happens, time happens. The years haven't
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been exactly kind to their friend group, and Amy doubts
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they're going to start taking it easy on them now.
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Take for instance, Zoe, who presently is lighting up another
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cigarette that after she takes a few initial hits on,
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we'll pass it to Megan, who will pass it to Amy,
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and so on and so forth. She's got dark hair
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that she cuts herself, all choppy and stylish, so skinny
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that she has to stand in two places at once
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just to cast a shadow. She works as a hairdresser
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when she isn't bouncing from one disc functional girlfriend to
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the next. Could probably make rent a lot easier if
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she didn't spend most of her money on psychotic women.
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Then there's Jessica Tall, blonde, pretty all leg could have
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been a model, or an actress or a porn star,
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made something of herself. She's never been married, but she's
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been engaged a bunch, is already in talks with a
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new guy, who she says has really swept her off
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her feet. This time is different, her words, it's always different,
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the only constant being that she's scared to be alone.
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Two kids at home, different fathers, but she's a good
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mom or tries to be there with her own mother
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right now, facilitating her current drunken escapades. Finally, Amy herself.
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She's the designated driver tonight, which means she's only had
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a few beers while the others have had a few
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too many. Red hair, skinny because she forget gets to eat,
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gifted with large breasts, which just means her boss finds
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it difficult to take her seriously. She works at a bank,
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makes okay money enough to keep the lights on and
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the internet paid, so she can keep looking at online
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colleges with the intention of applying, but never actually doing it.
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It isn't lost on her that she probably had it
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the best out of all of them before Megan's news,
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and this is after a messy divorce. She wishes she
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could find a nice doctor, but they would probably just
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prescribe her prozac and call it a day. I feel
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like I'm getting sober, Jessica says, what the hell are
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we doing? I mean, it's getting kind of late. Zoe answers,
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glancing down at her phone. Nine o'clock is not late,
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you old maid. Come on, it's one of Megan's last
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nights as a free woman. Amy wipes the sweat from
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her brow, loosens the strands of red hair that had
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been sticking to her forehead. All we've done is drink.
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I think it's time we get Megan some action. The
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shorter blonde looks caught off guard. She looks up expression
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of shock and says, you did not hire me a prostitute. Okay, Charlie,
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sheen reel it in. We're going to a strip club,
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not getting you piped. Oh, Megan says. She almost sounds
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disappointed for a moment before smiling. I could do a
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strip club good because you didn't really have a choice
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in the matter. Jessica's been looking forward to this since
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I told her I've basically just been pregaming the woman
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in question. Explains her pregaming would put a lot of
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seasoned drinkers under the table. All right, my little drunk bastards,
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get in the car. Next stop Wings and Dings, Chapter two.
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Wings and Dings is only twenty minutes from her apartment
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by foot, which is good since she doesn't own a car,
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so Joan just hoofs it every day she works, which
235
00:16:18.720 --> 00:16:23.080
is most days. She sets off north up East thirteenth Street,
236
00:16:23.480 --> 00:16:26.080
walks the entire way in the shadow of the Reserve
237
00:16:26.120 --> 00:16:31.279
Square building, then turns left onto Superior Avenue. It's late,
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00:16:31.759 --> 00:16:34.879
getting later, but even with the sundown and the moon
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creeping higher and higher into the sky, it's still hot