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It’s
never been easy, going into Marty’s room
- as if there’s a big unwritten keep-out
sign on the door. Then again, you could say the
same about Marty himself.
The door knob’s cold. Like a dead pig’s
trotter. Stiff too, like it don’t want
me to come in. But I have to. For Marty.
I know he’s there, I can feel him. All
through the mags and knives, piggin’ collars
and can’t-see-me gear. He’s on the
floor, laid out with the deer hide he tanned
himself. Up on the wall with the antlers and
tusks, and the boar’s head. Marty’s
right through the room, bits and pieces of him
there for the taking.
That’s the problem. What do I take?
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