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Hugh

Hugh sings about cruel women as the Kia zips toward the barrier at fifty, sixty, sixty-five. He’s got Wild Turkey triple vision, so it’s a good thing he’s not steering–he’d probably miss it.

Car and barrier introduce themselves. The airbag deploys with exactly the flawed but rakish angle they discovered last week; Hugh’s head dislocates the driver’s window, and his right shoulder dislocates itself.

“Okay!” shouts the lady in the white coat as they rush toward the steaming wreck, clipboards flapping. “Get photos, get x-rays, measure blood loss stat!”

“Begher huhrry,” says Hugh, whose jaw is already healing.

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