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By Mrs. Chuck Torso

  don't even know how I'm sitting at my laptop in the camper van, writing this. Can numb fingers type? Can a numb brain think? I dunno, my dear Perpetual Toxins readers. I don't fucking know.

The pigs killed my Chuck. They took the life from my husband, the father of my children, the bullet in my gun, the wind beneath my wings. Cindy is off at one of the many strip clubs here in Reno, stripping through her grief. My little girl is so good for wearing black on this most darkest of days. Granted, they're shiny black pasties, but the sentiment is there. Wolf stole a Reno police cruiser and is Lord-knows-where with Lord-knows-whom. I packed him a healthy lunch and a black armband, so he should be okay.

I haven't seen the body, but my gut knows what it feels. The cops P.O. boxed us two of Chuck's gold teeth, some skin from his forearm that had a tattoo on it, and the piercing from his you-know-what. He's dead. He's dead. The cops got him in that raid at the titty bar and now my man has died before his time. I feel like Meryl Streep in The Deerhunter, not knowing for sure that Christopher Walken is dead by Russian Roulette in Vietnam, but knowing he's gone nonetheless. I watched that film this morning. Bad cinematic choice while grieving a loved one.

I don't know how he got caught, how Wolf got away, and why there were so many cops at that titty bar at 2 p.m.? Were we set up? Has the Torso run of the land ended?

I don't know what to write, my faithful readers. I know you look to me for guidance, but this time, I need your help! Anyone with information about the whereabouts of my husband, living or dead, please contact the editors at Perpetual Toxins. They know how to reach me. And please, any kind words you could send to a distraught widow would be greatly appreciated. Cindy could use new stripper clothes and Wolf's been eyeing some explosives, so, whatever you could send. Cold cut platters and fruit 'n' wine baskets are lovely, but please, no fruit cakes. Chuck despised them. Those suckers always tugged at his gold teeth.

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