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Jason worked a shop on the coast of a Greek island. It was one of the smallest islands in the country, but it was certainly the most beautiful. Having being born to an English mother one of her last wishes before she passed from blood loss that her son be named Jason. His father, the old owner of the shop, did just that and that was about the only thing he did for Jason.
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Ever since those explosions went off and shook the city my name has been painted across every paper as the detective on the case or the bastard who could not catch the pyromaniac. Whoever this psycho was I knew that he was more professional than idiotic. He had planned for the cops with me to arrive on the scene and set off the triggers that blew our cars sky high. The bang was loud enough for anyone in the city to hear, including the maniac who set off the other bombs.
There are many things to be said about ‘signs’. I don’t mean the ones left by the side of the road that tell you when to stop or keep going. I don’t mean the ones that ‘aliens’ leave us in the crop fields. I mean the signs that life shows you when you are doing something right or wrong. Often, early in my life, like the rest of us, when we did something wrong there was somebody there to punish us. I don’t know who is punishing me, but I know it is exactly what I deserve.
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