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   The hateful wind echoes violently
      through hard nosed valley
      carved by embittered waters below.

   Stan Furlong waits with passionate zeal
      flinging the butt
      of his cigarette
      into the demanding crack of doom,
      rechecking the zip-lock seals
      of invisible plastic bags.

   The rookie swings his blazing Cadillac
        around a jagged corner, beeping,
        blaring his horn, as he brakes
        on Stan's cold cigarette heap.


   "Bring the dough?"
                                              "In the trunk,
                                               Open and see."

   "...uh million and three,
      Here's the snow."

   Another cigarette
      lit with crimson
      is thrust through wind chaffed lips.

                                                "Be here next week?"

   "Yeah, you'll be here all week."
        He knocks the rookie off the edge
        Into the hungry wind,
        tossing his aborted cigarette after him,
        chasing it with the voided and priceless Cadillac.

   "I liked the car, would've been a good steal,"
      said Stan with firings of afterthought.
      As the blazing Cadillac fell piecemeal
      into the canyon, he lights up
      the last cigarette he'd brought.
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