He wears jeans, untucked shirts, and a Glock 19, and he has a big shaggy dog named Bob.
I could help you,” I said. “Counseling, drugs, a religious advisor, a girlfriend.
He blew himself up.” “Get out! You mean like guts all over the place?” “Not all over the place,” I said. “He was pretty well contained, all things considered.
That's how hospitals get you. You go in to visit and before you know it they got a camera stuck up your butt and they're looking' to find poloponies.
