I’m sure whoever was in charge must have been one of the last of the Fulda Fucktards, you know, those generals who spent their nard-drop years training to defend West Germany from Ivan.
“Nopey-nope-nope.” “Are you related to them? Are they family members?” “No way!” “So help me out, Lily. Tell me all about these people and how you came to be living with them. Okay?” “Okay.”
I walked across the concrete to examine the altarpiece of the atomic age. A large crack ran through it.
[…] often took a few boys down there for what we North Country folk call the week-end — Saturday and Sunday; it was also used as a sanatorium if required.
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