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A Poisoned Gift


A Poisoned Gift

Grandpa had always been a bastard, even after his death. Well, especially after his death. I’d heard rumors about Grandpa murdering his own brother with an ax. Mom once told me he’d regularly thrashed Grandma so thoroughly she’d had to spend a few days in bed. Fortunately, the combined powers of arthritis and Parkinson’s had nearly paralyzed him even before I was born. But that made him even more vicious. My first childhood memory was of Grandpa barking at Ma and Grandma as they helped him shuffle from his bedroom to the living room: “Not so fast, you rotting lepers! You think I’m a roadrunn...

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