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Fog Walker
Fog Walker
Fog Walker
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Fog Walker

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A captivating read; an exceptionally descriptive and unexpectedly dark tale took me to a place so unusual that I was positively impressed. Its black humour combined with farcical and sometimes outright evil capers will leave you in awe. You’ll love and hate the characters he has created, be glad to see them go, feel sadness in their passing and wonder if you’ll ever be safe in a small town again. I imagine that the King is truly one of the funniest creepiest evil-characters ever created. He is memorable but wicked in every sense. Bonavista is surely a hell on earth, and in quiet loveable Northern Ontario, who would have ever guessed?

One crime of hate and rape leads to circumstances with far-reaching effects. The book’s symbolism and relentless plot twists brings the reader to the full reality of the depths, decay and undercurrent of much of the human heart. Nine young men so painstakingly brought to a full characterization in the tale are all lost in the deluge of blood revenge. St. Amant has quickly become one of my favourite authors. Fog Walker is a gripping tale of revenge in a modern day small-town. Strong characters, raw emotions and great story. Would make an excellent movie.

Plunges you into the heart of Bonavista, a small French Catholic town in Northern Ontario, Canada. Minor plots complete with the main themes in the fog bound coming of age of Jed Bouchard. This is the world of violence, rape and outright evil. Events wash over the protagonists like a force of nature, dark, even black revenge.

One fine novel. . . it introduces many characters who are quite memorable due to their frightening singularity. The story makes exceptional use of raucous humor combined with a compelling drama of unmerciful vigilante retribution that will have you turning pages to the last.

Release dateFeb 3, 2010
Fog Walker
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E A (Edward) St Amant

E A St Amant is the author of How to Increase the Volume of the Sea Without Water, Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain and Stealing Flowers.

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    Fog Walker - E A (Edward) St Amant


    Published by E A St Amant at Smashwords

    Smashwords Edition January 2012

    Verses and poems within, by author

    Fogwalker - E A St Amant

    Web and Cover design by: Edward Oliver Zucca

    Web Developed by: Adam D’Alessandro

    Canada eimpressions Toronto

    Copyrighted by E A St Amant 2009

    Author Contact: ted@eastamant.com


    All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, emailing, ebooking, by voice recordings, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the author or his agent. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, companies, places, situations and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances whatsoever to any real actual events or locales in persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Fog Walker = ISBN -13: 978-0-9780118-8-8; Digital ISBN: 978-1-4523-0274-4. Thanks to the many people who did editorial work on this project and offered both their many kinds suggestions and their un-begrudged time, including T R St Amant, L Murray, Robbie Morra, Deb Cooke and L D’Alessandro. This is the 2016 Edition.

    By Edward St Amant

    How to Increase the Volume of the Sea Without Water

    Dancing in the Costa Rican Rain

    Stealing Flowers

    Spiritual Apathy


    Black Sand

    Book of Mirrors

    Perfect Zen

    Five Days of Eternity

    Five Years After

    Five Hundred Years Without Faith

    Murder at Summerset

    This Is Not a Reflection of You

    The Theory of Black Holes (Collected Poems)

    The Circle Cluster, Book I, The Great Betrayer,

    The Circle Cluster, Book II, The Soul Slayer,

    The Circle Cluster, Book III, The Heart Harrower,

    The Circle Cluster, Book IV, The Aristes,

    The Circle Cluster, Book V, CentreRule,

    The Circle Cluster, Book VI, The Beginning One


    Atheism, Scepticism and Philosophy

    Articles In Dissident Philosophy

    The New Ancien Régime

    By E O Zucca and E A St Amant

    Molecular Structures of Jade

    Instant Sober

    T o C

    Susan Reece

    Pat Rideau

    Jacques Lablance

    John Stryon

    Randy Reece

    Ron Dupucé

    Ken Depresé

    Frank Monet

    Matt Belangé

    Jed Bouchard

    Susan Reece

    The Gildré family’s three story house was in ruins to Jed’s left. Two unkempt children played out on the front yard among broken-down lawnmowers and motorboat engines. To his right, a shingle displayed the hours of Doctor Cartier’s office. Behind the sign lay a spacious green split-back, freshly painted. Jed passed Dubeau’s large, faded-white house at the top of the hill on the other side of the street. The Dubeau’s son, Pierre, was a former schoolmate who had failed to make grade eleven this last year, unlike Jed, who had passed–if just barely. Jed knew Pierre’s younger sister, Maria, who was ‘starting to find her figure,’ their drunkard of a father, Lennard, and his lovely wife, Majeses, whom the old man slapped around during his drinking binges.

    The sidewalk was broken in places and the shadows of trees fell before him, occasionally blocking out the sun. From Red Street, he went to Edward Street. Stan’s Taxi Stand, a one-room shack with a chair and a bed, came into sight. It leaned up against Joseph’s Car Depot, a dirty, ill-maintained brick garage, the eyesore of the town. Every week one more rusting wreck was added to its ugly collection.

    When the main corner came into view, a wave of anxiety passed through him, but this dread was so normal that he hardly noticed it. On the southwest corner stood a boarded-up store, Cotés Clothiers; the clock on the tower still worked and showed 4 pm. On his northwest stood Marcel’s Gas and Milk; across from the traffic lights on the other side sat a building from the forties, The Nova Scotia Bank. On the southeast side sat a small shoe store, The Toiler; above it were two apartments and a small dingy dentist’s office. A stained and torn Canadian flag snapped in the wind on its front portico.

    He saw a group of his friends making their way south and shouted to them. The first to stop was Ken Depresé, an overweight nineteen-year-old who everyone knew as Turk. He was dressed in a cotton short-sleeved shirt and a pair of faded oversized jeans. He looked like a plump ragamuffin, especially with his bright, curly red hair.

    What’s up? Turk said in a rough, nasal voice when Jed caught up. Jed was taller than him by maybe ten inches, even though he was four years his junior.

    Jed shrugged, and they all shook hands. One of the four, Jacques Lablance, was an outsider to this group, if such a thing could be said in Bonavista, even though he was a close friend of Jed’s. He had light-blond, neatly-cut hair, and he wore a form-fitting shirt and expensive dress pants. His clothes separated him, not only from Turk, but from the rest of them as well, even Jed. Jacques had his right ear pierced with a shining diamond stud, and a small, plain metal ring hung on the lobe. His blue eyes shone with intelligence, and his angular face was striking. Jed’s mother had once told him that Jacques was considered the most handsome young man in Bonavista. Jacques patted Jed on the back and the whole group began to walk again.

    I don’t work tonight, Jed said boisterously. I’ve got to be happy about that. He looked at Jacques. What brings you around?

    He wants to be among heterosexual men for a change, answered Pat Rideau, another of the four answered.

    Pat was in a working-class black muscle shirt. A half-dozen silver studs jeweled each ear. He also had tattoos of small green serpents across both knuckles, and Tough Guy written in large purple letters on his upper right arm. He had a small crucifix on his neck and an even smaller one hanging from his right ear lobe, plus he wore three studs on his right eyebrow and one on his left. That day, he had streaked his short black hair with emerald green specks. A small strip of skin showed above the elastic band of his underwear, which showed above his pants.

    The only real men in Bonavista, Jacques returned with an accent, are the ones who have left or the ones who are planning to leave.

    Matt Belangé was the tallest of them, and his eyes brightened at this remark. He didn’t have Jacques’ fine features or Pat’s handsome toughness. His height gave him little elegance, and his face had no solidity. Unlike Pat or Jacques, he dressed in loose, sloppy clothing and had his hair in long, messy curls at the back as though he didn’t care about his appearance at all. Matt produced a loud fart and then openly guffawed.

    Wit’ zese two, he said, exaggerating Jacques’ accent, it’s ze blind leading ze blond,’ non?

    Pat whacked his arm with a closed fist, but Matt only laughed, then burped loudly and changed voices. Ouch. B-b-baby doll, what’s up with that hunk-a-billy love tap?

    How’s the King? Jed asked.

    God bless you, young man, for asking. Not many people these days care about faded rock stars, especially fine Catholic youth like yourself.

    They soon arrived at the front entrance of Reilly’s restaurant. On seeing them, a pretty grade eleven student rose to leave. As she was known for her ample cleavage, her presence provoked a series of catcalls from the group–although neither Jed nor Jacques partook in this display, which caused a stir as they entered.

    At this, a gruesome-looking teenager from the back corner came over. His scarred face was marred by deep, horrible purple burn marks, which always attracted attention. He was dressed in black slacks and a light, cotton, blue t-shirt with the Toronto Blue Jays logo. He had short black hair and grayish-blue eyes. Jacques and he stood in Jed’s mind in utter contrast: one fair and angular, the other disfigured and coarse. Frank Monet shook their hands and indicated with a head gesture a small table by the window at the front, which he cleared of high school students with a rude gesture and a couple of loud cusses, throwing his grotesques face into their personal spaces. Not only did the students at the table by the window scramble away, but those at the surrounding tables also left.

    I’ve been trying to track down Jim all day, Frank said in a low, gravelly voice to Pat as they drew up around the table.

    He’s out, Pat said, but I haven’t seen him yet.

    Along the walls, handwritten signs instructed them in black felt marker on what they could wear, what language they could use, or rather not use, and, in general, how they should behave. Many words were misspelled, and over time the signs had developed a greasy nicotine color. Twenty or so people were in the restaurant, most of whom were high school students. Frank and Pat sat next to one another with their backs to the window on Main Street. Jed pushed two tables together so that three of them sat side by side.

    This time, Jim will be reckless, Frank said. He got two for five, you can’t beat that for armed assault.

    Canada, Matt said, curling up the corner of his mouth and talking in a thick French accent to imitate the voice of Jean Chrétien. Da best country in ze world!

    Do Harper! Turk demanded.

    The skill in which everyday Canadians are impoverished, Matt said at once, imitating the Prime Minister, is at once comprehensive and deliberate!

    I’m hungry, Jed interrupted as a wave of apprehension washed through him. Let’s order.

    Frank looked over at him, but without malice, and they ordered burritos and mini pizzas. Matt began to search through his pockets for what Jed assumed to be his billfold and Pat looked over at Frank, raising his eyebrows so that everyone would see.

    Jim will be broke, too.

    This was met with agreement around the table, to which Matt didn’t respond. At least we’ll get some work now, Turk said.

    All we want are his contacts, Frank added, looking over at Turk with a frown that almost made his scarred face downright inhuman.

    Matt, busy with his search, at last announced dramatically, There. However, he didn’t take out a billfold or anything with money, and instead produced a harmonica and began to play. He stood up and moved out from the table. This is for Jim Rideau, he shouted, turning to the high school students and for all the ex-cons of Bonavista, which, according to a recent CBC-Toronto Star poll, includes the majority of the residents here. He played a few more notes on the harmonica and then sang loudly.

    "A man becomes a lass

    When he ends up in jail,

    You better cover your ass

    If you lose your bail.

    You don’t stare at the stars,

    When you’re behind bars.

    You’re going to get kicked up inside,

    By some guy’s pride."

    Hoots, laughter, and applause followed–mostly from the male teenagers–and Matt bowed and sat. Pat reached over and hugged Jed around the neck.

    He’s been in and out of the can a long time, Pat said. He probably thinks Jed is prettier than his sister.

    Your family has suffered so long from inbreeding, Jed returned, pushing him away, that they can’t tell the difference between the slip and the stick.

    Pretty good for a minor, Matt said, imitating Don Cherry’s voice. He’s feisty and not afraid to go into the corners.

    Their burritos came with sodas, and also with the French fries and gravy Jed had ordered. Even though signs forbade it and provincial legislation outlawed it, Frank lit a cigarette, and then–without exception–the others did as well.

    The sun sat high in the sky and struck the window in a most peculiar manner. Jed could see every single marred crevice of Frank’s face. Soon a cloud of smoke formed over their table, and the sunlight fell through it in pieces. For several moments, they ate and smoked in silence. Jacques pointed out the window to a tall, pretty girl who walked past the restaurant on the other side of the street.

    I’m in trouble with her, he said in a low voice.

    Turk grunted as he hustled a whole burrito into his mouth. She dresses like a hooker, he mumbled.

    They watched Virginia Lafontane stop to look over from across the street. She shaded her eyes with one of her hands, her tall, svelte figure at its full height. Jacques quickly ducked his head behind Jed. Turk waved at her, pointed toward Jacques in fun, and beckoned her over. She recognized him, turned without a smile, and continued to walk down Main Street. Everyone laughed.

    She’s a hooter queen, he said.

    It’s okay, Jed said to Jacques, she didn’t see you.

    Why don’t you just tell her to take a hike? Pat offered.

    Because of Isabel, Jacques returned, continuing to peek out the window.

    Who’s Isabel? Frank asked.

    Turk belched loudly. You haven’t seen Virginia’s younger sister? She’s the high school celestial virgin. Right, Jed? God, I would treat her right. She could use my face as a chair.

    Matt belched even louder and longer, and dramatically butted his cigarette in an ashtray in the middle of the table. By the looks of it, young man, she already has.

    Again, a noisy round of whooping ensued. Matt pushed his oversized glasses into his large face. The King treats all hooters equal, but the King especially likes big hooters on skinny celestial virgins like Isabel Lafontane or Susan Reece. Thank you. Thank you very much. I love you folks. You’re white and you’re Christian, you’re some of the very best fans I have.

    Another group of high school students came in, and the buzz of voices rose. Jed heard his name called and nodded to a few friends his own age, but didn’t return their smiles. The gang watched several high school girls take off their jackets. Matt and Turk produced a series of catcalls. They also made sexual gestures with their hands and tongues. Lost to his thoughts while the banter continued, Jed tried to remember his conversation with Susan Reece that morning at summer school. He was there to make up his history and French courses; she was there to jump ahead. A vague sensation of dread inundated him and he wished he could run away with her, to leave his family and Bonavista behind.

    At length, Jacques rose from the table with a yawn and drew Jed out of his daydream.

    I’ve got to pick up a car for the shop and then work on it–it’s a rush job. He looked at Jed. What’re ya doin’ later?

    We’re going to the Reserve, Pat said, butting in. We’re going to get Jed some real live pussy tonight.

    It’s our project to improve the Bonavistan youth, Matt added. We want to make him an e-man. Jed-dot-cum. Turk and Matt embraced, pretending to weep. Touching, Matt said. We’re so unselfish.

    Jed could see these remarks goaded Jacques. He didn’t understand why Jacques had even come here with them, but he also looked at him as though he expected some help out of this quandary. Then, he shrugged.

    What’s pussy? Jed asked at length.

    This brought on genuine laughter, and Matt followed this with a racist rendition of ‘What’s New, Pussycat?’

    The King knows Native Indians and Blacks never denigrate the sacred parts of a woman’s body, he added when finished his song. I want my fans to know that I say these things only in jest–no offense, folks. Thank you very much, and may God bless you and your whole family.

    Susan Reece is pussy, Pat said softly with a smile, right, Jed?

    Jed nodded, but didn’t return the smile. Susan Reece wasn’t to be even thought of that way: she was angelic, a goal of romantic love for which he strived.

    Matt held his hands upwards and spoke in a thick Southern drawl. Jesus loves all of us, and remember, Red pussy is the First People’s pussy; sacred pussy. Hallelujah. But what’s best for the long, hot summer weekends? Is it English Protestant, French Catholic, or Native Huron pussy?

    Turk groaned and pulled at his curly red hair. But Reverend Swaggy, what about Black pussy?

    Don’t try to fool a man of God. There’s no Black beaver in Bonavista. He raised his eyebrows dramatically, goggling his eyes and burping again. God loves alliteration, and so does the King.

    Jacques put his hands in his pants pocket, pulled out his cigarettes, and lit one all in one smooth action. The war between the sexes is the most basic form of human strife.

    Matt shot up out of his chair and again spoke in a dramatic manner. I’ll have you know that this kind of talk gets the King’s ire. It’s Commie and Jewish talk. That’s what the King fought against overseas. Are you saying that you’re better than the good, simple white folks who come out, in ones and twos, and spend their hard-earned loonies to listen to the King and to buy him beer?

    The King’s a crack fiend, Jacques said, laughing without enthusiasm. Besides, Jed thinks it cool to hang with the Serpents’ hired help, and can’t see that you guys are a pack of racists.

    Turk rose alongside Matt and hugged him. He pretended to be effeminate and flabbergasted. Racist? he said, I’ll have you know, Dearie, I resemble that remark. He curtsied, saluted Nazi style and then burped several renditions of, Seig Heil.

    These fine young cannibals are on the road to recovery, Jed countered.

    They laughed again, and when Jacques had left, Turk leaned over the table to say something in confidence. He especially looked at Jed. That prick is starting to rub me the wrong way.

    By six o’clock–without either Frank or Jacques–they made a trip to Stan’s Taxi Stand, where the owner bootlegged for the underage in Bonavista like as Jed, or those restricted from the local liquor stores like Pat and Turk, who’d been charged many times for public drunken disorder and related offenses.

    Afterwards, they left the immediate area of downtown Bonavista and gravitated to their more familiar northern spot near the town docks, St Joseph’s Park. By seven o’clock, most of the bottles had been emptied, and the red sun rose high on the horizon. Everyone had drank a good deal and smoked many cigarettes. Jed looked over at the town docks two hundred feet away, already dizzy.

    There are no Great Lake freighters docked tonight, he said, and no large cruisers or hauls either.

    Turk passed around a pinner, and everyone smoked up. Under an enormous oak tree with the ground littered with acorns and cigarette stubs, Jed noticed the sunlight on the tin roof of The Town Dock Burger and how it reflected the light in a beautiful shade of violet, but he feared to share this observation in case they ridiculed him. Violet was a gay color.

    Look at the yachts and sailboats leaving for the islands, Turk said. They come up here, hop into their boats, and sail off like conquerors. They live in that huge ugly dump, kiss whatever ass they can, and come up here in the summer to destroy what isn’t theirs.

    Pat cleared his throat and spit. Pronto Toronto; at least they bring Ecstasy with them–Frank’s getting some tonight.

    Jed looked over at Pat, ignoring this announcement. It’s nice not to work on a Friday night. I think I’ve worked the last ten of them in a row. I’m so happy I could die.

    Pat slapped him on the back. Anything we can do to help. It’s grand to get plastered. Thank God that one of us works.

    Turk nodded. Although Food Town should be called Shit Town.

    There’s a song called Shit Town, Jed said.

    Matt stepped into the center of the group. Don’t forget, the King works at Speedy Bakery in Frambataine, and it should be called ‘Seedy Bakery.’ The King will explain this to you simple trailer folks. The King makes the donuts and tries not to spit in the batter. Thank you very much, but one day, the King yanked out his huge donut holder, came into the batter, and brought that batch of donuts to Reilly’s to give to the young, pretty high school pussies.

    Pat looked at him in disbelief. Matt, you crazy bastard, you didn’t?

    Matt smiled with evil intent and pointed his index finger at him. I believe you had a donut from that batch, Rideau.

    Matt, that’s so screwed up, Jed said.

    The point is, the King is steadily employed, the same as Jed here.

    Turk’s eyes glossed over and he burped to the tune of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I’ve sufficient funds to buy a little more tipple, girls, he said when he was done. What’s your choice? Are you up to procuring some bubbly or would you prefer beer, or bourbon perhaps?

    Double alliteration, Matt said in the voice of the King, double points. How grand, my dear. He leaned down and kissed Turk on the top of his head, he then paused and smiled with his sparkling eyes. I don’t feel up to bubbly tonight, darling, and beer is too heavy. Let’s get bourbon. I’ve had such a bad day slugging at the bakery. Many of the men working there envy the King because of his enormous lovemaking abilities and his inescapable–

    Here comes Frank, Turk said, interrupting him. Steve Duffy’s with him. That should make you happy, Jed.

    It’s the bottle for the father, Jed said, half singing, who gets all the cash, the fist for the mother . . .

    And the kids live on broken glass, they sang in unison.

    In Bonavista, Pat said, everybody lives on broken glass.

    Steve Duffy, a pale, thin young man with light blond hair, stood a little shorter than Jed, although he was slightly older at sixteen. He had a short, unremarkable haircut, and unlike Jacques, his blondness wasn’t at all striking but rather dull.

    He came from a large family of boys born in a close cluster of years. They suffered from poverty and he dressed the part. For the same reason, he hadn’t settled well into school in his teenage years, but opted for seasonal work: snow removal in the winter, leaf raking in the fall, cottage repair on the islands in the summer, and building swimming pools for rich cottagers in the spring. Except for when the government paid for highway work (an infrequent event) the money was inadequate. Besides, few homes or businesses had been built in the Bonavista area for some time, and what construction existed had been completed by companies often using Toronto crews with immigrant non-unionized labor. Frank opened a bottle of lemon gin and passed it around. Steve swallowed half of it in one go.

    Off to their right, Main Street ended and the road forked one way into the main dock area, and the other way into several side streets. The streetlights came on and twilight descended even as the last of the red sun sank into the horizon. Pat swigged from the last of the bottle, smashing it up against a nearby boulder.

    I’m heading up to Stan’s to get a few more halves, he said. Who’ll cut in?

    Good to his word, Matt ordered bourbon. Turk settled on some more lemon gin, promising to split it with Frank. Why don’t you come? Pat said to Jed.

    Jed dug out ten dollars and ordered cherry vodka. Take Steve.

    Where’s your bum buddy tonight? Steve said in return, obviously angered by the suggestion.

    Jed pushed himself from the picnic table, wobbling a bit. This was their single bone of contention: Ron Dupucé, Jed’s schoolmate and friend. Some time ago, Steve had beat him up, and Jed was always looking for an excuse to revenge Ron’s trouncing. Are you talking about your brothers? he asked, slurring his words.

    I’m talking about Ronny-boy.

    Jed made to take a swing at him, but Turk grabbed his arm and jumped in front of them. If you two think that we’re going to stand around on yet another Friday night and watch you two slow-dance, you’re kidding yourselves.

    Matt stepped up and dramatically nodded. "Boys and girls, let’s sing the cooperation song.

    ‘Cooperation is the missing link.

    If I’m at the bar, buy me a drink

    If I’m in bed, get me a trick

    If you can’t find one, get your sister quick.

    Now, let’s all hold hands and remember the rule

    If he bends over, push in his stool.’"

    Steve looked at Matt and then Turk with defiance. They were both laughing. Fag-boy’s brave when he’s with you guys, Steve hissed. Jed threw a hard punch past Turk, landing a direct lucky hit to Steve’s face. It put Steve off his feet, but he sprang up and rushed forward, blood flowing freely from his lower lip. The group swirled in momentary confusion, but Turk held Steve and Jed apart with little effort; he weighed more than both of them together. You can’t protect him twenty-four hours a day, Steve cursed.

    Pat grabbed Steve by the shirt collar. Touch him and I’ll deck you. Now get out of here if you can’t get along. We’re sick of it.

    You should be nice, Matt said, and learn the cooperation song. Remember that I love you.

    You don’t fool me, Steve said to Pat. You’re after his sister.

    No one would want your sisters even if you had any, Jed shouted back. They’d be as hag-ugly as you.

    Steve’s face filled with rage. You’re a jerk. Let’s go.


    Jed hurled forward and again struck Steve in the face, but now Turk stepped back and they lunged at one another. Jed immediately got the upper hand with two more solid punches to Steve’s head, and then one to the jaw.

    Steve fell back. Jed kicked him between the legs when he was down and connected, then jumped on top of him and began repeatedly punching him until he called it quits. Steve stumbled to his feet with a bloody face and walked away without another word.

    So, anyway, Jed, Pat said when Steve had walked out of his earshot, how’s Sharon?

    They laughed.

    I got him good, Jed boasted, brushing off, but I’ll tell you something. I think she’s into Jacques now.

    I’m getting sick of hearing that guy’s name, Turk said.

    Howdy Folks, Matt said in a deep, goofy voice. Yuppity-yock, I’m Jock the Cock.

    Jacques’s okay, Pat said. He can’t help it if they’re all ape-shit over him. He’s the James Dean of Bonavista. But remember, I’m the Leonardo Decaprio.

    Yeah, oh yeah, Boo-Boo, Matt said. Jacques likes young fresh p-p-pussy-y-y and Pat likes himself. Matt changed voices and sang,

    "Hey, home-dogs,

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