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The Irony Of The Movie ' Hell '

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I wonder if he’s dead yet. I pity the worms lumbered with the task of decomposing his flesh if he is; however if his descent to hell, purgatory, the endless void or wherever souls unworthy of restoration advance, has commenced I expect he was rolled into a kiln and burnt to ashes and dust - just as she was, a mere two days after he handed her a lifetime of reasons, to purchase the rope that befell her demise. If indeed he has departed I 'm disappointed I missed the celebrations. The old, unapologetic, black bastard with his crown of contrasting white hair - four inches, on all sides, bearing close resemblance to someone post-electroconvulsive therapy. The irony is disturbing. Flashback to his fleshy Maori lips and flat nose, while the vision of his mug haunts me, it 's the reminder of his over pronounced chewing, the background score to his table manners (or lack thereof) that are the real kicker. I still hear him sucking the marrow from the KFC chicken bones while seated at an angels table, I see grease smeared tyre lips, teeth bared - he never did learn how to share anything of meaning with his grandchildren - she despised him for that, but she despised herself more. One must endeavour to accept the small joys when they arise, rare as the Kea - so I take solstice in having been released from the echo of his voice. Finally, after twenty endless years, I am permitted to dream, no longer do I wake up disconcerted, drenched in the sweat of betrayal; tormented by
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