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It wasn't rare for local joggers and strollers to join him on Wednesday mornings, if nothing else as target practice for fun and potential profit. Rancid potatoes or rotten tomatoes, moldy banana from health-conscious Anna or even some truly disgusting inane prose; all of these and more came to mind unbidden like a long forgotten childhood friend who shows up on your doorstep, asking for permission to operate on your kidneys with a rusty hand pruner.

So, here I was looking in from the outside like some dubious character in one of Raymond Chandler's justly forgotten attempts at the classic Bildungsroman, such as the one about some poor guy who spent sixteen weeks, trapped in

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