Hiram spares a glance at the heavy Mission Oak chair in the corner of his dusty, tobacco-infused study. In it now, a schoolgirl. Bound and gagged, tied securely---she bats her long lashes provocatively at him and screams Do me! Do me! Do me! with her eyes.
Hiram blinks. Another wave of intoxification washes over him and he swigs another gulp of Glenfiddich straight from the bottle, washing the acrid bite of the pills from under his tongue and down his throat, replacing bitterness with fire. He’s headed for a dark place---the roller coaster is nearing the top of its run, and it’s soon to be a
long, hard fall for Hiram Grange… a long fall and loop-de-loop. But he’ll pull out just before hitting rock bottom. He always does. But for now, the Binge.
Hiram blinks. Another wave of intoxification washes over him and he swigs another gulp of Glenfiddich straight from the bottle, washing the acrid bite of the pills from under his tongue and down his throat, replacing bitterness with fire. He’s headed for a dark place---the roller coaster is nearing the top of its run, and it’s soon to be a
long, hard fall for Hiram Grange… a long fall and loop-de-loop. But he’ll pull out just before hitting rock bottom. He always does. But for now, the Binge.
--Scott Carr, Hiram Grange and the Hitler Gene
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