Humor: Amazon review for the Chucky doll from the movie "Child's Play"

11 of 19 people found the follow review helpful

**        Not at all what I was expecting, September 29, 1988

By a very disappointed mom

This review is from: "Chucky" Good Guy Talking Doll

Durability: *****       Educational: ****    Fun: *

My son Andy's 6th birthday was coming up and he'd been asking and asking for the Good Guy "Chucky" Talking Doll so I finally got it for him.  I ended up buying it from street person (who I now suspect stole it from the burned-out hulk of a department store where a notorious Voodoo serial killer died) rather than from Amazon, but I'll go ahead and do the review here anyway.

At first Andy loved his Chucky doll--he was so excited! He had the best birthday ever except for the end of the evening when Andy's babysitter threw herself out the window of our apartment and plunged to her death on the pavement twenty stories below. After the police and paramedics left, I gave "Chucky" a 5 star review.

Later, I noticed the talking doll was saying strange things, encouraging Andy to kill people, and bragging that he (the doll) had killed the babysitter, etc., etc. It started to bother me after a while, so I decided to take the batteries out of the doll to make it stop talking, and I was almost going to knock it down to three stars, but you won't believe what I found when I took off the battery door (which requires a small Phillips screwdriver, FYI): I had never put the batteries in! LOL.

Well, I love not having to buy batteries. It's very green and saves money. Plus, most people don't even think about the environmental impact of having to dispose of spent batteries. So that was a plus. But Chucky's demonic urgings were inappropriate, so I still took one star off of my 5-star review. (Also, there were quite a few murders going on and I suspected the doll was responsible, so that was another reason.)

Later, though, I became convinced that Andy was the murderer. I packed my little guy up and marched him straight to the mental hospital, but the little rascal ran off and the next day I found him--with another body! That's when I realized I'd been very unfair and I bumped Chucky back up to 5 stars.

Anyway, sorry this review is getting so long. It ends up I was wrong about everything. Chucky the doll was animated by the soul of that Voodoo serial killer I mentioned toward the beginning of this review. He tried to demonically possess Andy, killed a bunch of people and ended up being just a very poor purchase.

I should mention, too, that the quality of construction on the Chucky doll is poor--inside its torso is, of all things, a beating human heart. Very unsanitary, although I only noticed it as he was chasing after me with a kitchen knife, so that wasn't my top concern at the time, but looking back now, yuck.

Eventually, we shot the doll through the heart to kill it. Chucky's Voodoo friend was able to let us know about this method of killing it right before he died from the mortal wounds Chucky had inflicted on him after a prolonged torture session. Lucky for me, too, since otherwise I probably would have tried to kill Chucky by putting in the freezer for a few minutes to stun him before plunging his head in boiling water the way I do for lobsters. LOL.

So now my son is scarred for life. I've got a ton of funerals to go to, not to mention the expense of sending flowers since I feel partially responsible, and I owe my son a replacement birthday gift since this one is now gut shot, in pieces, and scattered around the apartment.

On the plus side, I see that Chucky has started to reanimate himself, so, despite all his problems, I have to give him 5 stars on Durability. We certainly learned a lot, so 4 stars for Educational Value, but as far as Fun, if I could give zero stars, I would.

Overall, I really wish I'd bought this doll from Amazon. I know it seems like a lot has happened, but I'd actually still be within the 30-day return period and I would not hesitate to return it for a refund. Pin It Now!

The Dragon with the Girl Tattoo


My little parody of Stieg Larsson's opus has now been published on the rather excellent site, Bewildering Stories. Check it out and see if it lives up to its name.

If you hated The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, you'll enjoy this parody. Here's an excerpt from a scene when Lizbreath Salamander's evil conservator makes his first and last mistake.

She said, “That's bad touching,” and he stopped. Then she tortured him, tattooed him, gutted him and made balloon animals out of his large intestines.

Note the wishfulment coupled with the over-the-top pointless violence. That, my friends, is literature. Click here to read on.


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Acceptance: "Heatwave" is going to be in Medusa's Laugh's Book of Impractical Cats

I'm so excited. The Book of Impractical Cats is going to be a handmade, limited edition book of cat stories. Life just doesn't get any better than that. I'm going to get some contributer copies, but I'll probably by more as Chrismas Gifts. I can't wait to read the other stories.

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Warrior Cat and the Yoohooo Spam Filter

Warrior Cat and the Yoohooo Spam Filter
"That is unjust!" the Warrior cat shouted, leaping up and raising his sword high. The light from the Tiffany chandelier gleamed along its edge.  

"Yeah," Chris Hugh said. "Life is so unfair to me. All my mail is getting caught in people's spam folders and no one is seeing it."
Warrior Cat jumped down from Chris' round waterbed with its silk sheets and fur bedspread and landed on the custom floor inlaid with the rarest woods from endangered rain forests. "Who is responsible for this enormity?"
Chris shrugged, swallowing a mouthful of foie gras and tossing the rest in a wastebasket made from an elephant's leg. "I think it's Yahoo. It seems like they've flagged my email address."
"I will right this wrong!" Warrior Cat cried. "I will make them unhand your email!" And with that, the cat disappeared, magically travelling along Chris' super-premium T-1 modem link and traversing the electronic pathways between Chris' mansion and Yahoo's headquarters.
He emerged in a huge server room amid row upon row of huge computers. He logged into a terminal and nosed around.
"Hmm," he said, examining the list of spam addresses. "Poor Chris was blacklisted simply for sending eight million helpful messages to potential customers last week. That's wrong! Chris is only earning a living." He clicked the mouse down and started erasing the address, but
 Author_of_Really_Grate_Riting_I_Spell_Good_Too @ yoohooo

was very long and it was hard to concentrate his feline attention on clicking the delete key so many times. He got it down to Author @ yoohooo  then he sat on the keyboard and groomed himself, accidentally changing Author to Arthur and  somehow adding a wildcard key that insured that every address containing that name would be blocked as spam. Then he chased a stray rubber band around the server room before going home.
The next day, 297 Arthurs around the country were confused when their friends stopped returning their messages.  Fifteen Arthurs ate lunch alone because their friends didn't get their emails inviting them to lunch. Two Arthurs in New York and three in California did not get to interview for jobs they'd been pursuing because five HR people never received replies from them.  And one wife in Indiana, already suffering the difficult delivery of her first child, was consumed by worry because her husband in Afghanistan had suddenly stopped writing to her.
On the bright side, each one of them received a special offer to buy Viagra, earn a college degree, meet hot chicks, and buy Chris' book, Diseased Imaginings.
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Cat's Eye Digicam: a story by the Anchorite

Cat's Eye Digicam
a story by the Anchorite
with a few edits by Chris Hugh



Mr. Kitten did not know his true birthday, so he and his human established the tradition to celebrate it on the date that Chris adopted him from the shelter. That tradition worked for Mr. Kitten as he contentedly received generous gifts every year, while he repaid his human’s kindness with several gifts of his own. Chris especially loved the dead birds and occasional mice, and would join the cats in eating them raw because he felt it enhanced his image as a mob enforcer.

This year, Mr. Kitten wanted a camera because he wanted to become a photographer. He did not want just any camera, but the top-of-the-line Cat’s Eye Digicam with the sharpest image resolution and largest memory capacity on the market. Mr. Kitten never accepted anything less than the best.

His human unfortunately lost his job a scant week before celebrating Mr. Kitten’s birthday because all the Mob bosses in the area suddenly found religion and turned straight. Chris panicked and considered foregoing the lavish gift to save money, but he valued his cat’s happiness and still purchased the camera despite facing an uncertain financial future. Mr. Kitten appreciated the gesture as he happily took photos that he posted on his blog. 

His human had to tighten his belt as he had to provide for himself and his cats with a limited supply of money from his side business as a specialized pharmaceutical importer and distributer, so he cut the food budget and fed Mr. Kitten lower quality cat food than what he normally ate. That is, Mr. Kitten had to switch to eating Beluga caviar ($520 for 4 ounces) rather than the Almas caviar he preferred ($25,000 per kilo although it does comes in a free 24k gold tin). Mr. Kitten would have previously refused to eat such inferior swill, but he saw his human hurting and realized the token sacrifice Chris was making. Kitten wrinkled his nose and begrudgingly ate the cheap cat food with his usual side dish of black truffles seasoned with saffron and decorated with gold flakes. In the back of Kitten’s mind, he vowed to find a way to apply his photography skills to his help out his human.

Mr. Kitten was sad to see Chris come home day after day with a female escort independent contractor under each arm, high as a kite from sampling his own product, and pockets bulging with $100 bills, but frustrated because he hadn’t broken anyone’s kneecaps. Mr. Kitten’s close friend Twitch offhandedly suggested that Chris’ luck could not be this bad. Mr. Kitten pondered that notion as he thought that despite Twitch’s often questionable ideas, even a broken clock was right twice a day. Mr. Kitten suggested investigating these prospective employers with his camera in tow. Twitch insisted that he should go out in the field because it was his idea. Mr. Kitten suspected that Twitch just wanted an excuse to play with the camera, but he allowed his friend to take the camera as he trailed their human’s job search. Twitch returned with the camera’s memory filled entirely with black screens because he forgot to open the shutter. Mr. Kitten rolled his eyes, snatched the Cat’s Eye Digicam from Twitch, and then bit his tail to send him running away.

Mr. Kitten followed his human on his job interviews, often sneaking out during his own lunch hour and taking extended breaks from his own job. His efforts led to prolonged absences and diminished performance that caught the attention of his supervisor Anton Fitzgibbon. The Chaircat of the Internetz called Kitten into his office with a gruff bellow and demanded an explanation. Anton listened with impassive silence as Mr. Kitten explained his situation. The Chaircat recently opened his heart to a human’s love after many years spent alone, so Mr. Kitten’s story gained his sympathy. Anton immediately granted Mr. Kitten an extended leave of absence with full pay, placed the Internetz A/V department at his disposal, provided a discretionary expense account, and even placed Warrior Cat on retainer for any potential wetwork. Mr. Kitten thanked his boss and set out on his mission, feeling slightly remorseful for the “Ditzy Fitzy” graffiti and crude caricatures that he scrawled throughout the office.

Mr. Kitten’s keen eye and high-resolution photos uncovered deliberate efforts from crooked employers to keep his human unemployed as they wrongly tried to do their mob enforcement using other means such as “talk therapy” and “sending polite reminders.” Mr. Kitten frowned as he thought that no matter how strict or uptight Anton behaved, albeit less so after adoption by his new human, he ran his business with honor and integrity: if he said he’d drop you off a bridge wearing cement boots, that’s what he did. He didn’t offer refinancing at a more favorable rate of interest. Mr. Kitten eagerly took photos and anonymously sent them to these bad humans, urging them to reconsider their business practices. 

Back at home, his human barely held back drunken shouts of rough laughter as rejections turned into offers. Before Chris knew it, he found himself in the position of having to choose between competing prospects who practically begged for attention. He finally accepted a generous offer where he had a private office, a chauffeur and a brand new Louiseville Slugger for kneecap breaking. He was so happy he felt like a little boy again. Mr. Kitten and Twitch once again enjoyed premium cat food and repaid their human’s kindness by dragging a raccoon corpse into the house. Mr. Kitten knew that he would be happy after seeing the size of this dead creature. 

Twitch begged Mr. Kitten to borrow the Cat’s Eye Digicam now that he completed his mission, but Mr. Kitten had a better idea. Mr. Kitten kept a list of mobsters who had tried to go straight, so he sent Twitch on a mission to visit every one of them and barf on their shoes, leave hairballs on their floors, and take high-resolution digital photographs of each one. Twitch excitedly set out on his own mission. Mr. Kitten warned him to not get any barf on his precious camera or else he would bite Twitch’s tail so hard that he would beg for Warrior Cat to put him out of his misery. Twitch told him to relax and not worry about anything, which did not reassure him in the slightest and instead gave Mr. Kitten a new perspective on all the times he made similar promises to Anton Fitzgibbon.  

Before Twitch departed, their human roughty ruffled both cats' fur and called them "good little sons-of-bitches." He radiated happiness at once again securing gainful employment and told his beloved pets, “Who says black cats are bad luck? I'll break their kneecaps.”



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Short story: Flagship Character

The Anchorite's writing assignment for me today was to write something about his character Claire. She's a very deep character, a pivotal player in a dark fantasy epic. She is a lesbian who breaks all the fan service conventions. Her characterization explores love and pain and loss in unexpected ways. So, of course, this had to be a comedy piece.

Flagship Character


"Oh, no--" Claire clutched her stomach as a string of noisy eruptions choked off her words and she vomited a half liter of clear broth. In the zero gravity of space, it formed a small galaxy of floating globules. 
 
Twitch slid out out his lounging area. It was a shelf padded with goose-down and upholstered in silk. Stretchy netting covered the pad, allowing a cat to snuggle in and be held against it, creating a comforting illusion of gravity. Mr. Kitten invented it.
 
Twitch pushed off against the pad and floated to Claire. He used his claws to hold onto her flight suit and sniffed at a sphere. He licked it tentatively. "You're kinda sick," he said sympathetically and gave Claire his version of a kiss, which was to push his nose and mouse against her eye. Claire wiped a droplet of broth from her eyelash.

"You shouldn't have let go of the handhold," he advised as he turned his body around until his butt was up against Claire's face. "Now you're stranded, just like your barf bubbles, because you don't have anything to push off against." 

A vomit globe burst against the back of Claire's head as Twitch used his back legs to push off against her neck and face. The cat's motion moved Claire with an equal and opposite amount of force, but because of Twitch's much smaller mass, the movement did not get her near a handhold. It merely made her slowly rotate.

Twitch landed back at his lounge and winked at Mr. Kitten. "Did you know William Shakepeare invented the word puking?" 

Claire turned a little more green. "Don't talk to me about Shakespeare," Mr. Kitten said, turning away. Claire let out a breath.

Kitten cocked his head and turned back. "Actually, that's interesting. Did you know Chaucer was the first to use the words digestion and laxative?" 

Claire swallowed.

Twitch shrugged out of his lounge again and bounced over to Mr. Kitten's, taking a circuitous and sickening route that Claire followed with watery eyes. 

"That's quite a hotchpotch collection of words, Mr. Kitten."

"He invented the word hotchpotch too."

"Seriously?" Twitch asked. 

"Actually, Chaucer--" Kitten stopped and high-fived Twitch. Chaucer also invented the word seriously.

Because of the spin introduced by Twitch's movement, Claire was now looking at the cats upside down. Kitten blinked at her impassively for a moment, then he said, "Chaucer also invented poop and fart." 

Claire threw up again.
 
Heather rushed in from the other module. "Oh, sweetheart, I just saw you on the monitor. Why didn't you call me? Poor thing." Heather looked at the spheres. They were all perfectly round now and the ship's lights illuminated each golden globe with a holiday effect. Heather deftly gathered all of them into a plastic bag for disposal, biting her lip and trying to suppress her joy of moving in space.

"I'm so sorry, honey. I never knew you got motion sickness like this."

Claire closed her eyes. "It's space sickness. And since I'm a character in a sword and sorcery dark fantasy novel, I really never had occassion to learn I was subject to it."

Heather nodded. "I was meaning to ask you why we're in a spaceship."

Claire pressed her lips together. "My author, the Anchorite, suggested that Chris Hugh write a story with me in it."

"And?"

"And he called me his flagship character and Chris misread flagship as spaceship."

Twitch tumbled out of his lounge crying "Shakespeare!" rather than the more traditional Geronimo! and began springing around the chamber. "That Chris! She's such a beldam brainsick duchess!"

Kitten rocketed out in pursuit of Twitch. "Not he's not! He's a burly-boned clown and a bolting hutch of beastliness!"

Twitch laughed. "And you're a shag-haired crafty kern!" 

"You're a swollen parcel of dropsies!" 

The cats bounced around the ship, shouting Shakespearean insults and trying to catch each other.

Heather helped Claire into a sleeping bag. Now that Claire's stomach was empty she felt better.
 
Heather stroked her cheek. "I'm sorry the Anchorite keeps having Chris Hugh write you. You always end up the butt of that crazy writer's sick jokes."

As Claire kissed Heather's cheek, she caught a glimpse of the cats. They were trying to fight, but because of the zero gravity, they just bounced off each other. 

"I'm glad Anchorite had Chris write me," Claire said. "If he hadn't, I never would have met you." She looked at the cats and laughed as one of them called the other the son and heir of a mongrel she-dog. "And I wouldn't have met them."

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Anton Fitzgibbons



As faithful readers know, Anton Fitzgibbons is the uptight Chaircat of the Internets. Here's a story with him.


The Interview


"In five years?" The woman smiled a practiced smile. "Well, in five years I see myself further along in my career. I'll probably be married by then..."

Anton's face darkened.

"...and I'll be starting a fam--"

"Thank you," Anton said, looking pointedly at the door. The applicant sat in the stiff-backed chair, her smile faltering. Anton stared at her as he pressed the intercom button. "Send in the next applicant please, Mr. Johnson."

* * *

"How do I define success?" The next applicant plucked a soft gray cat hair from her immaculate black business suit. "Well, as the CEO of a major software company, I'd want to create a mission statement to address that question. What was that? Why I spend a great deal of time at home." She pulled out her iPhone and brought up a calendering app. "10.8 hours per day, in fact, which is longer than it seems because I only sleep 4.2 hours per night, yielding a total home/awake time of 6.6 hours. Yes, I don't let the grass doesn't grow under my feet."

She also did not let the door hit her on the way out.

* * *

The third applicant answered every question quickly and well and was rejected.

***

"In five years, I see myself sitting in a chair, petting you."

Anton make a checkmark on his notepad.

"I guess I'm not much of a success." The fourth applicant smiled. "I have a temp job and I'm unemployed a lot. I guess success will be when I can work from home."

Anton made another check mark.

The applicant struggled over the final question. "Counters are okay. My couches are old anyway..." She finally gave up. "I'm sorry. I can't think of any rules that cats have to obey." Anton raised an eyebrow, but she was already chuckling.

Anton lrolled on the floor as the woman giggled over the idea of a cat "obeying."

"You're clearly an ideal candidate." Anton said. He started to straighten his tie, then shrugged and took it off. He jumped into her lap. "You may adopt me."
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Who Invented Puking?






Who Invented Puking?


Shakespeare did! He invented the word "puking" and like 1700 other words we use today. Check out this fascinating site.

That Shakespeare, he was like the Joss Whedon of the Middle Ages.

Huh? Who is Joss Whedon?

He is the super genius behind Buffy the Vampire Slayer. How many words has Joss Whedon invented?

Kissage  = kissing
I made a funny = I made a joke

a bazzilion others....

Joss Whedon. He was talking like a LOLcat before there were LOLcats...
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Guest story: Whazzup

I was on Reddit and came across this great story. Parts of it made me literally laugh out loud. I asked permission to post it here and Steve Evert graciously granted it. He actually posted the story asking for critiques, so perhaps it's not finished and polished yet, but I think parts of it are pure gold.


Whazzup
by Steve Evert


“Mr. Thomas I presume?” The boy said matter-of-factly. He was dressed strangely for a ten year old boy, in what I could only describe as business casual, briefcase in hand.

“May I help you?” I asked, watching the boy take assertive steps along the adjacent wall, studying the classroom posters.

“Well I’d sure hope so.” He flipped his briefcase on a desk. “Real nice digs you got here.” He cracked open his briefcase and retrieved a manila folder, thrusting it directly into my hands.

“Ok?” I said, as his staunch gaze studied my every movement. I began to read the contents of the folder and it appeared this boy, one Jonathan F. Croyle was a transfer student from downstate, who sure enough was enrolled my 5th grade class.

“Well, welcome --“

“Thank you sir, I believe you’ll find my being here to be a wonderful addition to the team!” he extended his hand. Reluctantly I shook it.

“Right, well class doesn’t start for another hour so-“

“No problem, fine by me, just grand, I’ll take a seat over here.” He spoke faster than I could comprehend.

I shrugged and started back to grading essays, John took the seat where his briefcase was and began to just openly stare at me, and I mean really stare, shooting daggers into the side of my head. I couldn’t focus and finally sort of snapped.

“Hey John.” I said

“It’s Mr. Croyle.” He corrected.

“No John, in my classroom I’m the only Mister. Got it?”

“Fine. You’re the boss.”

“Look John, why don’t you do an essay I assigned the kids last week.”

He crossed his arms. “It’s Jonathan.”

“Fine, Jonathan. Write a page describing your earliest memory. You think you can do that?”

“Very well master,” he muttered.

“Mr. Thomas will be just fine.”

Jonathan clicked open his briefcase and retrieved a gold fountain pen and satin-bound notebook. Diligently, he wrote away and by the time I was done grading the final essay he flipped his onto the table, chuckling maliciously as he walked back to his seat.

His essay was entitled, “The Escape”…

The earliest memory I have begins with darkness. I am a captive. Black bounding walls constrain me. I’m suffocating, yet breathing, all is moist. I hear muffled yelling, it’s frantic, other voices cry abound. Confusion begins to set in, beyond my conscious thought. I know not who I am, but rather that I am. Alas! A blinding light separates from now what I know to be my mother’s vaginal walls. I am thrust into the open vacancy of oxygen, of life, and into my mother’s arms. She softly looks me in the eyes and I give out a large, voluptuous, “WHAZZ UP!!!” Next thing I know everyone’s high-fiving- 
I stopped reading at that point, but I kid you not there were two more pages of material. I swiftly wrote and circled a red “F” at the top of the paper and looked up to John.

“WHAZZ UP!!!” he yelled just as I imagined he did in his story. He began a wicked laughter and I waited for him to regain composure before walking over.

“Is it as funny now?” I said stone-faced, handing back his essay with a failing grade. He quickly rendered a drab poker face and began to study me as I retreated back to my desk.

“Hey Mr. Thomas I got some good news for you!” He chirped.

“Is that so?”

“If you give me just ten minutes to redo my essay, that’s right just ten minutes! I’ll whip you up the grandest, Disney-land bullshit essay you’ve only read in your dreams! No really!”

“Sorry kid, you only get one shot with me.”

“What if I told you for just five minutes, I’d give you a free notebook?!”

“Sorry, you’ll just have to make it up on the next one.”

“But wait! You qualified for the super-double-notebook-bonus!”

“No. That’s final.”

John began shaking his head slowly, tisking. “Some people,” he said rhetorically to his invisible peers behind him, “They’re just afraid of taking chances,” he scoffed, “You offer a guy the opportunity of a lifetime and wouldn’t you know it; his pride is his tragic flaw.”

I was becoming irate, “Five minutes. Go.”

“See I knew you’d see things my way,” he gleamed, I almost retracted the five minutes, but he had torn into the essay so I just let him go. -

“Five minutes is up, “I said, he pulled out a pocket watch and clicked it open, “5, 4, 3, 2, 1. No, my time is up now.” This damn kid lived to get in the last word on everything, “Here’s the glorious refined essay you yearned for and by the way you actually didn’t qualify for the double notebook bonus, sorry.”

I kept silent and began reading the refined essay. A few students were beginning to show up now and I could hear Jonathan making formal introductions, “Jonathan Coyle, how do you do?” He’d shake hands, “Care for a business card?”

The new essay was entitled, “The Dream Job”…

There I was, a slender chap, the tender age of three. The silver spoon of my birth had been thrust into the archives of my mind and in this particular scene I accompany my birth-giver, my mother.
She and I are standing in a line, wavering in the dense viscosity of the August air, waiting to update mother’s government issued identification. I watch as the ever-expanding queue increases with the protruding misery of each and every customer. The evil employees are snickering evil hyena-like laughter. Basking in the apparent anguish, taking their time to suckle at every last shroud of dismay, and refusing driver’s licenses for each and every minor flawed detail.
Seven hours pass and mother finally reaches the front desk, “Sorry were closed for the lunch hour,” a man says through his rat bastard smile, howling like a madman. Tears welter from mother face, but I simply stand as the assailant, along for the ride. Mother walks away, pulls me aside, and says, “The only worse people in the world, than the ones working in there, are teachers. More specifically, fifth grade teachers, probably named Mr. Thomas.”
I wasn’t sure if I agreed with mother back then, but now I am certain she was correct, if anything, understating the fact.

P.S WHAZZ UP!!! I looked up from the essay and could see Jonathan in the midst of a sales pitch, showing Rebecca Smith a large collection of watches that hung from his briefcase. Slowly he coaxed her and slid his arm around her waist, then he smiled his wicked smile, looking right at me, “WHAZZ UP!” he said.

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