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  • In lightning and spray paint. Among friends and parole officers.

    This is no death.

    The Saxon begins by breathing into his fist. Slowly, in and out, through and through. Alone, he’s focused, breath by breath.

    “It’s close now,” he hears The Man say. “You can almost make out what it will look like.”

    For almost a year He’s waited in this warehouse, divided by both time and distance; deconstructing these final, Goyim, minutes.

    Those first few months had been the most exciting. He’d lay against the hard floor outside the room, humming and listening for the The Man’s distinctive crackle behind the door. When he was cleared to enter he’d slide up against the Pulp Fiction poster at the back of the room and look across the desk. The Man was always facing him. Always red-eyed and painted thick.

    “Its not without hesitation that I allow you in here.”

    The Saxon had heard this sentence every day for nearly a year and always defended it with crossed arms and a sideways smile.

    “Without a pot to piss in and barely even worth the sweat of your mother’s ass crack, you remain: allowed. With all honesty I can say that I don’t understand my own motivations, much less yours. Me, I’m as obvious as a fart in a car but you? You’re a twisted, torn type of person; someone I shouldn’t let near my lawyer much less trust with the edge of a knife. You’re a man I’m going to watch do terrible things, aren’t you.”

    And now, 300 days to the right of those early few, The Saxon looked back at The Man and knew what terrible things he would do. Not in his name or even in his presence. There was no covenant between them, just one long year at the beginning of 25-hundred more. He could see the shapes as well. Terrible, terrible shapes.

    The Battle of Williamsburg had begun.
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