For a while, I'd almost convinced myself that the trashbat museum party might bring some sort of closure for me. Not just on Dad's passing and on splitting up with Jones but on the entire seven years since I moved to Hoxditch. I wanted to believe that if I got completely rat-arsed and humiliated myself with that Preacherman routine just once more,
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Also, yeah?, you don't talk about my Papa like that. I didn't ask him to throw you out - I didn't know he did until he told me the next day - but I'm pleased he did now, otherwise you might have trashed the whole place up.
Genius party, yeah? SO SAY BROTHER NATHAN!
Cheer up, Dan, yeah? I'll replace your drink if you want. Come to the pub later, yeah?
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Fine. Whatever. I'll bring the stinking lingerie back, later on. Maybe I'll wipe my arse on it, too.
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Cheers. Don't soil it more; I will press charges. That's an historical artifact. You don't go around the British Museum shitting on stuff because you disagree with, say, Egyptian mythology. It's like me coming over to yours and deleting half your book. Shape up, yeah?
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I don't go round the British Museum shitting on stuff because the difference between the items held there and your...pile of sparrow-wank is that they deserve reverance. Your "exhibits" deserve nothing more than a litre of petrol and a lit match.
I've pushed the soiled bra through the letterbox of trashbat. Satisfied?
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Very.
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