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The Battered Wife Syndrome Streak in the Liberty Movement Vol. II

It wasn't the cold.

It wasn't the damp cold of a Brooklyn wharf just before dawn or the insidious piss drizzle of toxic cocktails of water and industrial waste running in rivulets down the seamed face that used to greet him in the mirror with boyish bounce and feminine pampered softness. Impacted grease under split fingernails briefly glowing red and he pulled the last hit off his smoke and flicked it where it died a brief guttering death in a grey puddle that reflected more grey and hopeless skies overhead.

Time. Cold. Grey. Crap. And still he waited. It was all he did. He could hardly remember ever doing anything else. He dimly remembered a shining life, warm interiors encased in multiple layers of hand rubbed lacquer and 20 year old scotch. A faint echo of a woman's laughter cutting through the accreted cigar smoke like a prison window briefly opened and shut; a quick puff of purity and hope instantly infused and defeated by a palpable miasma, the smell of darkness, the almost imperceptible creep of inevitable decay that had gripped his soul so slowly at fist then with inexorable power that dragged him down farther and farther until all that remained was an old, sage man who never moved but his eyes watched.

And waited. And waited. For the day when....

"Excuse me Mr. Beck your meeting with Mr. Hannity is in 45 minutes, shall I have your car waiting?"

Yes that will do fine Helmsley...thanks.

He shivered briefly to ward off the cold which penetrated below his bones and into his soul. The lonely old sage watched and waited...for the day...when he would rise and save humanity.

Wait that rhymes with Hannity.

Save human kind.

Yeah....that reads well.

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Bravo, sir.

Bravo, sir.