Well HALE-FUCKING-LUJAH. The time had come. After goddamn MONTHS and MONTHS of hobbling around the compound like he was Tiny Tim or some shit, Brodie Bruce was mobile. Sure, he wasn't one hundred percent yet, but that was beside the point here. Thanks to Doctor Hottie, the cast with the transformed DICK AND BALL DRAWING was gone, and his leg was
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But on the way out of the compound, he happened to run into one of the LAST people he expected to run into. NOW this place started to send people from back home. ABOUT FUCKING TIME.
"Well, Holee shit," Brodie said at the familiar face, "If it isn't Mrs. Holden McNeil." Those two fuckers had been practically joined at the hip, from what Brodie remembered.
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After feigning scratching an itch on his cheek with his middle finger, Banky looked from the crutches up to Brodie's face. Little fucker was all relaxed looking, even with the damned crutch under his arm.
At least, Banky figured, there was something he could use to beat some fucking sense into the guy if he continued on with that Mrs. Holden McNeil BULLSHIT.
"No wonder your monologues sucked, Bruce. Your funny bone's lacking in some serious comedy calcium."
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If Banky had been around long enough that he'd already heard the radio show, then Brodie really WAS slipping. Time was that even a broken leg wouldn't have kept him from finding out some shit like that.
"So when'd the fuck Jersey spit you out?" He asked.
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