“I didn’t need to be a rocket surgeon to see that Vaughn was upset as he shuffled into my house like a zombie, his head hung low and a slow dragging of his feet with every slow step that he took. On his face he had what looked like a pitiful combination of road rage and the loss that you see on grieving widows at funerals (at least the ones where the widow is actually going to miss her dearly departed significant other, not the one’s with the sneaky smiles and internal celebrations that ‘his ass was finally dead’ as she counts insurance policy dollars to herself). He dragged himself into my home without a word and collapsed on my couch like somebody shot him with a sniper rifle (truer than I knew at the time), all the while his face kept ricocheting between those two overpowering emotions like a tragic game of table tennis. Ping, a flash of anger. Pong, a flash of sorrow. Ping, more anger. Pong, here comes our buddy sorrow…”
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