Out Of The Frying Pan And Into A Bigger Frying Pan


“Dear Lord, it’s not you, it’s me.”

Thomas Knockers was in a bad way, and it was obvious. He had dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. The veins looked like overlapping routes on a GPS. A greater display of his discomfort was in the way he pressed the palms of his hands against his head, above the ears, as if trying to play a stubborn accordion. He was experiencing the mother of all migraines.

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