February 20, 2011

In an Old World manner, Bubbles Throckmorton emptied her revolver into the paisley pattern featured on the side of the despicable suitcase. Tilting her head back, she loosed a maniacal laugh, which serpentined out the window to disappear over the moor. Rand Stallbirk sprang into the room only to discover the slumped, weeping form of Bubbles.

“Darling, why?” he cooed.

“It wouldn’t close,” she gasped, and her shoulders shook as a new wave of grief swept over her.

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