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The Society of Miserable Bastards

by J. Daniel Sawyer




I didn't take up a lot of space when I was little. Actually, I took up so little space that I was the sixth of ten newborns that got laid out around milepost thirty-five one cold Thursday evening—that's the milepost halfway between two towns nobody's ever heard of on the way to nowhere in particular, on the side of the lousiest dirt road in the whole damned state. Technically, the base of milepost thirty-five is a mudhole, but it was the kind of nondescript, shallow mudhole you could float nickels on, which sort of reinforced that special “nobody-gives-a-shit” quality that made the spot famous.

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