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Paul's dried, cracked lips kissed the gold of his wedding band. Peering through the shutters, his blood-stained fingers gripped the trigger of the rifle that saved his Pa on Normandy sands.
6 shells
6 rounds
6 seconds til he assumes his life defying niche...
He cried: Die, you son of a bitch!
Is this mankind's penance? Mid melee he'll glance down at his band, he grins. Swig from his flask a filthy mouthful of gin. "Now where is this son begotten? There's only undead, only rotten. Be widowed, yet still I find a thrill. So I put my back to the water and take my Kentucky pill."
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