The Truth, Sam!

I walked over to a pile of magazines Sam had stashed inside
of a cardboard box, grabbing a few from the top. “Who
doesn’t know, Sam? You already told the whole god
damned world about it. I want to to know the truth!”

“I told you what I know,” Sam yelled, “I told them all what I
know! But they won’t believe me now. It’s complicated.”

I placed the magazines under my left arm, lit a cigarette, then
opened the top rag up to an article by Tina McKnight.
“Maybe they don’t believe you anymore because you’ve
turned into a homeless drunk with an attitude worse than
Rosie O’Donnel on the rag. Or maybe it’s because of the
garbage you’ve been feeding to the media. Tina McKight,
Sam? What a bitch.” I dropped the magazines on his
chest, picked up a nearby bottle, and threw it as hard as I
could. It shattered against a part of the graffiti painted wall
that said “Cops are Killers.”

“Fuck you!” he said.

“Yeah, fuck you too!” I yelled. “I want to help, but you’ve
got to tell me what happened!”

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