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Sheng seemed to be tickled by his remark, but tried to hide it for my sake. “But really, what do you think happens after death?” After the skirmish with Captain America, my defenses were up and running once more. “Nothing. I think once you die, there’s nothing. Just a big, black, nothing.” “Seems like a kind of scary thing to believe in. Isn’t it?” “I think it’s scarier to believe that my fate doesn’t belong to me, but some bozo in the sky.” My description seemed to have fouled the air, by the expression on his face. After a pause he apparently felt that we had become trusting enough of each other for him to ask me, “James, so is alcohol the only thing in your system?” The subject change was about as smoothly transitioned as a snapped neck and all of a sudden his ulterior motive for asking me such questions came into focus. He was trying to establish some sort of connection in order to squeeze out a confession of further culpability, but the asshole would get nothing from me. One thing I forgot to remember, and the cop to 85

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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