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Author Topic: Just Like Harry Auldman's Blues  (Read 505 times)
ChairmanSanchez
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« on: June 15, 2013, 01:57:56 am »
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March 11th, 1942. Jackass Junction, Florida.

The cold winds of a March night in Florida blew across the white gravel road, with the headlines of an automobile coming west from the town of Vero towards the small town being the only thing visible, other than the Dessert Inn, an infamous brothel and bar popular with the ranch hands and migrant fruit pickers.

As the car began to get closer, the ladies of the night all waiting on the porch of the sleazy establishment jerked themselves up with great interest-an automobile was coming. Nobody drove an automobile in these parts-just horses and burros. The car continued up the road, with dust and dirt flying up from under it, creating a cloud under and around the car. As its headlights grew closer, it illuminated the faces of the three prostitutes, who eagerly argued amongst themselves which one would achieve the services of this unusual character. After all, Jackass Junction had four corners, and the only notable part was the Brothel.

The lights grew close; the car appeared to be pulling in. And just as soon as their excitement peaked along with the light, the car suddenly turned. It was going south. There was nothing south. Irritated and defeated, the three prostitutes went inside to entertain the evenings only other customer-an unusually heavy good ‘ole boy who was not easy on the eye.

‘Doc Byrd drove down the old road for a couple of miles. He had received a call from the location of Jackass Junction’s only payphone, where he heard the voice of a frenzied farmer whose pregnant wife had gone into labor earlier than expected. Upon getting directions, ‘Doc Byrd left his home in Vero and set off at once to the small crossroads about forty-five minutes west of town.

The thick sea of Florida pines and scrub suddenly gave way to a clearing, where cattle grazed behind rusted barbed wire under a small patch of orange trees. A one and a half story white frame Florida cracker house stood, with a single light burning through a window being the only sign of life. As ‘Doc Byrd excited his car, the door of the house flung open, and the figure of a man ran out.

“’Doc Byrd! Thank God you made, Thank God, Thank God, Thank God!”
“What is the trouble, Mr. Auldman. Your wife has gone into labor, correct?”
“Yes, yes, but the baby..it just won’t come out…she has given birth to three children without any help, bar that of a midwife.”
As ‘Doc Byrd entered the house, the three other children, all girls, and all under ten, huddled crying in a corner, afraid and unaware of what was happening. The youngest girl, who must have been only five years old, sat in between the two older sisters, clutching her doll made out of a potato sack, her auburn hair stringing over her head into her tear flooded eyes. ‘Doc Byrd bent down to address them, and gently told them through his thick southern accent that everything would be alright. And everything was alright.

Harold William Auldman, the fourth child and first son of Harold Washington Auldman and Vestal Cromwell Auldman, was born at 11:34 PM, on the evening of March 11th, 1942.

Excerpts taken from chapters two and three of “Down in the Flood” by Harry Auldman, © 2015.

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.....I remember much of my childhood, to my own surprise. From the time I could walk on my own legs, my father would rouse me from my slumber and drag me out into the fields, well before light. In the winter, the wind was sharp and painful (though this would not compare remotely to my first winter in Washington five decades later) and in the summer, the mud would steam, creating an unbearable cloud of humidity. The dung of the cattle would turn rock hard, and would crunch beneath my feet in the homemade leather shoes mother made for us…

…..my first formal schooling came at the age of seven. The closest school was in Vero, so early each morning, I would join my sisters and begin the arduous walk to the crossroads, where an acquaintance of our father and the only other local farmer we knew of by the name
« Last Edit: July 08, 2013, 02:46:18 pm by ChairmanSanchez »Logged

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« Reply #1 on: June 15, 2013, 02:53:17 am »
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I look forward to reading it. The more the merrier!
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« Reply #2 on: June 15, 2013, 10:34:48 am »
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Nice start! Smiley
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« Reply #3 on: June 16, 2013, 01:36:17 am »
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Excerpts taken from chapters two and three of “Down in the Flood” by Harry Auldman, © 2015.

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.....I remember much of my childhood, to my own surprise. From the time I could walk on my own legs, my father would rouse me from my slumber and drag me out into the fields, well before light. In the winter, the wind was sharp and painful (though this would not compare remotely to my first winter in Washington five decades later) and in the summer, the mud would steam, creating an unbearable cloud of humidity. The dung of the cattle would turn rock hard, and would crunch beneath my feet in the homemade leather shoes mother made for us…

…..my first formal schooling came at the age of seven. The closest school was in Vero, so early each morning, I would join my sisters and begin the arduous walk to the crossroads, where an acquaintance of our father and the only other local farmer we knew of by the name of Jefferson Davis Clayton would generously drive us into Vero. My actual memories of my early education are a daze; not living in town made it impossible for me to make any close friends, and my father’s iron hand was enough to keep from even thinking of getting into any trouble…..

……as I learned to read, I soon discovered a great literary interest. Books were not just instruments of education, as my peers in grade school derided them as, but also a form of escape. Unfortunately, books of any type other than our family Bible were impossible to come by. So every day, during the hour I waited downtown for Mr. Clayton to pick my sisters and I up, I would collect cans and bottles and trade them in for nickels. I would then dash like a madman to the newspapers office to pick up the day’s paper, and eagerly read it as my sisters and I rumbled about in the back bed of Mr. Clayton’s truck…..

…..Christmas was a wonderful time of year. My mother’s mother, my Nanny, would come down by train from her home in West Virginia and visit us from mid November until February. The train ride was a two day rail trek from Charleston, West Virginia to Orlando, where my father would pick her up. Her gifts would follow her by mail a couple of weeks later. My Grandmother was born to Confederate veterans who settled in central West Virginia only after the war, and constantly regaled my sisters with embellished tales of grey coated confederate veterans and beautiful Southern bells from the legendary Dent family...

……When I was ten years old, my father informed us that they were having a Fourth of July event down at the airfield in Vero, and that he wanted to take us. Jumping on a rare chance to enjoy luxury, we all eagerly went. While there, my joy was tempered by the solemn presence of veterans from the war in Korea. I saw one man, who must have been in his early twenties, with a face scared by the impact of a bullet on his jaw. I saw another man missing both legs and most of his right hand. While the fight against communism was a valiant fight-at least according to the papers-I could not help but wonder if it was worth it for those brave men……

….not long after my fifteenth birthday, Piper opened up a factory just east of me in Vero. It was opportunity too good to pass up. I took up residence with a fellow student and factory worker, Al Ewell. During my time living with the Ewell family, I watched my first television broadcast and heard my first rock-and-roll on the same day when he watched a broadcast of Elvis Presley live on TV. We spent our weekends doing what we weren’t supposed to be doing-cruising around town in Al’s car, chain smoking cigarettes and occasionally involving ourselves with some other “good ole boys” from the nearby farm town of Fellesmere to go into the town of Gifford and have ourselves a good natured but hard fought street rumble with the local “colored” boys (back than of course, this was not an offensive term). During this time, I maintained average grades, and cared little about the world around me….
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« Reply #4 on: June 16, 2013, 05:21:25 am »
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Continue
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« Reply #5 on: June 17, 2013, 02:28:04 pm »
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Thanks for all the feedback. I will try to get an update up tonight. Also, if I contradict the Americana cannon in anyway, please let me know Smiley.
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« Reply #6 on: June 17, 2013, 02:43:00 pm »
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Thanks for all the feedback. I will try to get an update up tonight. Also, if I contradict the Americana cannon in anyway, please let me know Smiley.

On my part, I don't necessarily consider any original creation of someone to be contradicting canon.  You could make Scott Westman a serial killing cross dresser and I wouldn't be like "hey!  You can't do that it's against canon!"  I might be like "yeah, that's a little creepy" but that would be the extent of it.  I'd be happy if you stuck to the spirit of the character (Dallasfan's work is really good at that, as is Kalwejt's most recent foray).

Oh yes, by the way you got permission to use Westman or any other character that has been created by me.  No copyright lawsuits here pal.
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« Reply #7 on: June 18, 2013, 10:59:32 pm »
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Vero Beach, Florida-July 18th, 1959.
Harry never cared much for the beach. It was the place to be in the summer, yet the culture was alien to his, based around hunting, fishing, and general boredom. He often spent his time pacing up and down the beach for miles a stretch, taking in a tan that would not last, and eyeing the many beautiful country girls who shed their usual skirts and blouses for the scandalous “bikinis” that seemed to be the new craze.

The Driftwood Hotel, built by the local eccentric and powerful businessman Waldo Sexton, was a popular place at the time. It was, as it sounds, built out of driftwood. It’s collection of exotic and peculiar furniture and knick-knacks drew in the curious, and Mr. Sexton seemed to have a different story for every item every single day. The wealthy tourists and inhabitants of the town mingled there, and the promiscuous teenage society girls would often find much older, wealthier men on vacation to spoil them in exchange for their..uh…company.

Al was a natural ladies man. He was sitting at the bar, entertaining a giggling gaggle of girls all dressed to the top, with each one of them slowly and slyly pushing each other back so that they may be the closest to him. Harry wasn’t one for this-these girls never worked a day in their lives, and Al had the natural charm that made it seem like he hadn’t either. Little did they know his true job was putting together planes on an assembly line, not, as he told them, in “constructive engineering.” Harry left the crowded bar room, hardly noticed by the women, seemingly hypnotized by Al’s charisma.

The heat was intense on the beach. The sand burned under his feet, and small children ran in circles nearby, laughing with joy as the frolicked in the sun. Small, relieving breezes blew the lukewarm water onto Harry, a mercilessly short delight that left one feeling the heat even more afterwards. Harry walked, and walked for what seemed like a mile or two. Besides a few old men stood close to the waterline, with their fishing polls casted far out in the water, Harry was far enough away not to be bothered by any other people. Harry was happy most of the time he could be alone with himself; after all, they got along well most of the time.

In the distance, he saw the figure of another person walking his way. The silhouette of long hair made him certain that it was a woman; after all, there were none of those bohemians and beatniks in Indian River County, none the less the entire south. He could not help but notice the beautiful figure of the girl. Her legs were long, and thin. Her head looked at the ground before her, hiding her face. Her head tilted to the left so she could avoid eye contact with Harry. As she came closer, he took notice of her. She was like the society girls in the fact that she did not hide her body-she too wore a bikini, yet, she was different. Her body and hair was dripping wet, and she carried in her hands a towel as she walked on.  Her black hair hung down towards her breasts. This was most unlike the other, empty headed, self entitled girls that flocked to the phony men for money in the same way those men flocked to them for meaningless and unsatisfying sex.

Harry turned his eyes forward; maybe some actual beautiful women did exist. Tempted by an usual feeling of lust, Harry turned back. As he looked, she dropped her towel, as if the power of his gaze pulled it from her hands. She didn’t seem to notice, and walked on. Sensing opportunities he usually did not pursue, Harry ran towards the towel and after the young lady, who stopped and turned when she heard his footsteps fast approaching. She looked up nervously at him and her bright green eyes met his. A calm silence, free of tension or apprehension existed for a second before Harry broke the silence.

“You dropped this, mam.”
“Thank You” she said, as a nervous smile crept up her face.
“Absolutely” responded Harry, wondering why the hell he said “absolutely” instead of something more..well something better sounding in general.
“Do you come from these parts?”
“I do” she responded, which excited an unexcitable Harry.
“May I ask where you are going?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Can I accompany you there?”
“If you like…what’s your name?”
“Harold Auldman. Most people call me Harry.”
“Caroline Walker.”

With that meeting, the two silently walked up the beach, and launched a relationship that would transcend decades and last through the strongest storms.
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« Reply #8 on: June 19, 2013, 04:46:42 pm »
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Also wanted to let you know if you want to use Watson, you can. I don't mind.
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« Reply #9 on: June 19, 2013, 05:11:46 pm »
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You can do whatever I want Tongue
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« Reply #10 on: June 20, 2013, 11:58:31 pm »
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Vero Beach Florida, August 27th, 1959.

Harry was nervous. He always was nervous. Standing at 6’1, with a short “buzz cut” on the top of his head removing most of his black hair, and weighing in at 122 pounds, it was pretty easy to see why Harry was a nervous kid. Just about everyone could whip him, but fortunately for him, nobody ever wanted to, because nobody seemed to know him…except for Caroline, which mattered most.

The nervous 17 year old was walking down A1A, towards Gayfeather Street. He wore his best tie, and had driven out to Jackass Junction (which had recently been renamed “Yeehaw Junction, to most peoples’ satisfaction) to have his mother press his shirt. He rarely wore the nice, cotton button-down shirt. In fact, only once, when his eldest sister Clara married a rather pretentious man by the name of Stewart Copeland down in Palm Beach, did he actually wear the shirt. But here he was, dressed up, approaching the house of his girlfriend. Today was the day he was to meet the parents of Caroline, and it was something he dreaded.

The house was rather unremarkable; a once story single family home just a block from the Ocean. The olive green paint job seemed a bit out of place with the more tropical color homes on the street, which slightly bugged Harry. Making sure to avoid the grass, Harry walked up along the gravel driveway until he reached the door, where he took great care to wipe his shoes down before knocking. Caroline quickly answered with a radiant, though at the same time slightly nervous smile, and took Harry’s hand witout saying a word, and dragged him into the parlor.

Sitting upright and stiff in a recliner, Scotland Walker sat, with his piercing green eyes resting within a hardened face under a balding head. A pipe dangled from his lips. Though he was sitting, the first glance would show that Mr. Walker was a giant of a man, with thick arms and broad shoulders. Sitting quietly in an almost submissive fashion with her legs crossed in a most feminine way was Darlene Walker, a slightly heavy woman with a small round face, clear blue eyes, and dark auburn hair wrapped high in the beehive style that most housewives seemed to be adapting. Scotland wore dirtied pants, with suspenders hanging over his shoulders, and a slightly rumpled dress shirt. He was clearly a working man. On the other hand, Darlene was wearing the common skirt and blouse outfit, with the stereotypical apron hanging off her body. The Walkers were clearly the most normal appearing family you could find. Both were clearly in their mid forties. This did nothing to ease Harry’s fears.

“So you must be Harry.” The words came in the voice of an aged southern woman, and reminded him of his own mothers voice. They came from Darlene.
“I am, Mrs. Walker. Very…very pleased to meet you.”
“And to you, Harry. Please, sit down.”
Harry sat down, the words pleasantly spoken none the less seemed more like a command than a suggestion.
“You ‘is a bit younger than I pictured. The way Caroline been talking, I musta figured you be a man in your early twenties. You can’t be but a year older.”
“I’m half a year shy of eighteen, sir.”
“So you are pretty much a year older. Caroline says you’re a pretty intelligent man. She says you come from farming stock.”
“I do, born and raised in Yeehaw.”
“Yee-where?”
“Jackass Junction.”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course. They renamed that town, now did they.”
“They have.”
“Aint nothing out there but a brothel and some stills though.”
“A few small farms here and there. I don’t have much to do with the junction.”
“I pray you don’t. No good man got no good business in those parts, less they be dealing with your family I suppose.”
“As you…as you can imagine, we..we don’t get much company.”
“With all due respect, Harry, I can imagine.”
A silence hovered over the room before Darlene spoke up.
“So we understand you work at the Piper plant?”
“I do. Its good work.”
“Do you attend school?”
“Throughout most of the year, yes.”
“Most of the year?”
“Well, Mrs. Walker, I am off right now for the summer months.”
“Oh, yes-yes-yes, that’s right. Are you enjoying your time off?”
“When I am not working, yes, yes I am.”
“Are you a Union man?” Scotland suddenly interjected.
“No sir.”
“Your not a red.”
“I am a faithful follower of brother John Birch, Mr. Walker.”
“Pleased to hear that, son.”
Another silence filled the room before Caroline eagerly spoke up.
“Daddy, did I tell you that Harry is planning on attending the state university next year?”
“Really?” Scotland sat up with interest in his chair.
“Yes, he plans to study history.”
“What are your intentions?”
“I intend to go into education.”
“Teachers can make a good living.”
Another silence. Harry looked over to the coffee table where a bulky object had been in the corner of his eye. Finally catching his eye, he decided to break the silence.
“Is that a accordion sir?”
“It is.”
“You’re a musician?”
“I am. Learned it when I was in France, a couple years after Caroline was born.”
“You were in the war?”
“Yes, I was not that old! I was only thirty when I went to Normandy.” Scotland said this with a chuckle, relieving Harry of the fear that he insulted the man.
“Do you play anything, Harry?” asked Darlene.
“I play the mandolin, actually.”
“Is that so? When did you learn it?”
“Oh about seven years ago, my grandmother taught my it.”
“Oh how delightful” exclaimed Darlene.

The small talk went on for what felt like a few more hours before Harry left. He left feeling slightly accomplished and confident that he had Scotland and Darlene’s approval. He could not be more right.
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If a burial strikes my family as too practical, I'd go for either a viking funeral on one of the Great Lakes or to be sealed up in a tomb with my closest servants and bang-maids so they may wait on my every need in the afterlife.
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« Reply #11 on: June 23, 2013, 10:38:25 pm »
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I was in Yeehaw Junction this weekend, went with some relatives throughout the trails in a jeep, etc. I go up through that area a lot, but I paid extra attention this weekend for more details for the story. Will have an update tommorow or the day after.
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If a burial strikes my family as too practical, I'd go for either a viking funeral on one of the Great Lakes or to be sealed up in a tomb with my closest servants and bang-maids so they may wait on my every need in the afterlife.
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« Reply #12 on: June 27, 2013, 04:43:36 pm »
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August 1st, 1960.

Harry was leaving the county for the university in Tallahassee. His 1955 red Chevrolet pickup, and the clothes in his suitcase were the only thing he owned, along with the “Nixon for President!” bumper sticker on the back of the truck.

Rumbling up the highways for hours, it was nearly 4:00 AM when Harry reached the outskirts of the state’s capital city. With at least twelve hours before orientation began, Harry checked into a cheap motor court off the side of the road, and proceeded to finish off the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he had purchased when he made a food stop near St. Augustine.

He woke exhausted and slightly hungover just shy of noon, with the sun seeping through the motor court’s curtains. Dressing himself after showering, he stood on the balcony of his hotel to enjoy a cigarette, before making his way across the street to a small diner.

Entering the diner, he stood in a shy state of disappointment: all the tables and booths were taken, and only one spot was open at the counter. Taking he a seat, he awaited silently for the elderly woman who stood with her back to him to take his order. Staring quietly at the counter in front of him, his dreary anxiety was suddenly shattered by the man on his right, who stared into his face and launched an unwanted conversation.

“I take it you’re a student?” he asked.
“I am, just arrived this morning” Harry responded.
“What part of the state do you hail from?” asked the stranger, as his authoritative brown eyes were making eye contact with a nervous Harry.
“Just outside Vero Beach sir.”
“Long ride up, did you drive yourself?”
“Yes sir, I did.”
“What do you drive.”
“I just purchased a Chevy pickup. It’s about five years old and runs great.”
“Really? The one with the Nixon sticker on the back?”
“Yes sir, that one.”
“Not many Republicans in this state. Why are you one? And why the Nixon sticker? You don’t look quite old enough to vote.” The strangers inquisitive questions only enhanced Harry’s general paranoia and social anxiety.
“My..my ugh..my family comes originally from West Virginia. There aint a lot of Republicans up there either though.”
“No, no there aint. But glad to see another one of my kind down here. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Claude Kirk. I sell insurance, and I am the Democrats for Nixon director in this state, though come registration day I intend to leave the party and join with the Republicans. I won’t be in a party run by a filthy Papist philanderer like Kennedy.”
“If I could vote, I would be the biggest Nixon supporter you could find, Mr. Kirk. Not that I am a Nixon fan, but the prospects of a President Kennedy are terrifying. I was disappointed that Senator Goldwater did not run this year.
“As I am Mr….Mr?”
“Harry Auldman.”
“Well, as am I, Harry. As am I.”
“There is always 1968, of course.”
“I appreciate your optimism, Harry. I take it you belong to the John Birch Society?”
“I do. I-“
Harry was interrupted as the waitress came to take his order. After ordering himself a platter of pancakes and eggs, the conversation continued for several minutes.
“Well, I best be going, Harry.”
“It was good meeting you, Mr. Kirk.”
“Please, call me Claude. If you want to help Mr. Nixon out, here is our phone number and address.”

With that, Claude Kirk left the diner, and Harry continued his meal.
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« Reply #13 on: June 30, 2013, 08:34:53 am »
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I just knew Old Claude will appear eventually Wink
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« Reply #14 on: June 30, 2013, 02:40:42 pm »
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I just knew Old Claude will appear eventually Wink
I didn't plan his inclusion this early until I researched the real life Democrats for Nixon group. It makes the plot line flow easier for me, plus the guy provides excitement where Auldman doesn't. I met him about half a year before he passed, and he was a really cool guy. He never lost that eccentricity and big personality, even in his older age. The first thing he said at the event was “I’m still a tree shaking son of a b*tch.”
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If a burial strikes my family as too practical, I'd go for either a viking funeral on one of the Great Lakes or to be sealed up in a tomb with my closest servants and bang-maids so they may wait on my every need in the afterlife.
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« Reply #15 on: July 01, 2013, 03:50:15 pm »
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Good work, bud. Hopefully young Harry can help Nixon take Florida. Wink
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« Reply #16 on: July 08, 2013, 02:44:40 pm »
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Woah, where did the first post go? Tongue
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If a burial strikes my family as too practical, I'd go for either a viking funeral on one of the Great Lakes or to be sealed up in a tomb with my closest servants and bang-maids so they may wait on my every need in the afterlife.
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