Thank you, Dad, thought Lewis Nixon, for the drinking and adultery. You’d be proud of me. Thank you, Mom, for your tough skin and tolerance for the intolerable. I couldn’t have survived the war without it. Thank you both for passing down your wonderful, fucked-up genes to your kids. Wish you were still alive so you could see what it’s done to us. Poor Blanche, she just couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t know if I can, either.
He thumbed the hammer of his old Browning 1911, raised it to his temple, and listened to the empty snap of metal.
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