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Rust #7


Morning sunlight glittered into the boot like stars through constellations of rust holes. So he was on the back of a lorry, maybe: sounds logical. Whatever, he’d escaped the filth and the bitch was dead through her own fault not his, shame she was dead, he’d slice her up good and proper after he’d finished with her. Shame them cops got off lightly too, but now he was being chauffer-driven to freedom.
Back of a lorry? Fuckin’ ace! Once his stomach settled into the routine of the boot’s motion, he’d kick his way out and that would be that.

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