Yeah. And I figured, you know, you could box me up in a crate and mail me to my wife overnight express, Priority Mail, whatever. How much would that cost? Postage, shipping, handling, et cetera?
Pre-Bunny Syndrome. It happens quite often in my line of work. You dig and dig and dig, and just before you have to make like a little bunny and go through the hole, you panic.
You like to dabble in peoples' lives, huh? Because you're so much better than us, because you've seen the light. You've seen the face of God. So you wave your dick around trying to help us lowly mortals. Hill, Mershah, Groves, Jefferson Keane. Fuck, you helped Jefferson Keane right into a lethal injection. So in the end, when all is said and done, who have you really fucking helped? Other than yourself?
