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Meet Frank



“Are you alright Frank?” The voice behind him asked.
Behind him was (of course) a very relative term, more like a guess. In front and behind, as indicators of direction become incredibly relative when you are lying on your face and the pain in your jaw is racing through to the rest of your head like a runaway freight train. The masked outlaws had killed the train operator, unhinged the trailers and the locomotive was now steaming ahead at full speed toward the canyon at the end of the line.
God, in his head Frank could even feel the vibrations and the clackety clack of the train’s wheels charging over its splintered wooden tracks.
I’m vibrating, I’m having a fit. Frank thought.
The fist which merged with his face had by all reasonable accounts come out of nowhere, and yet he had known it was coming. It had connected perfectly – like Ali upper cutting a tall, untrained toddler (in Frank’s mind, everything could be compared to the Great Butterfly somehow wrecking something) – to the s…

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