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Death Of A Garbage Man, Or Is It?

It happened at Rump's Bar one Friday night...

Only looking for bar-found cuddles, I now clutched my throat.

I’ve been shot!

Reaching to plug my wound, I felt a pointy stick protruding from my juggler vein.

“Oh Lord, why?” I gurgled to the heavens. “I’ll never again perform in the world-renowned, Garbage Man Circus!”

Dizzy and weak, I dropped to my knees. Gill’s crying. Recycle Man’s recycling. Compost Boy's composting. Orange Bag Lady’s leering, but Rump deflected something by smirk, and it struck me.

“Rick O’ Shea!” I growled at Rump. “You bastard!”

I then collapsed to the floor. Dead.

But the floor's disgusting, so I rise... again.

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