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LSCSC Ch.12 — Hank Sinatra

Ferg
7 min readJan 28, 2025

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Hank woke with a headache, despite not drinking any alcohol the night before, nor indulging in any peanuts. Three days had passed since he’d finished the job at the white ranch house. Three days since cleaning up Beethoven.

I really should try to polish those off though, before the mold gets in. And the mold would get in. Hank’s hotel room was always stale from lack of proper ventilation and a number of leaky pipes and windows which Mr. Park refused to acknowledge, let alone fix. AC’s broken again. It seemed to be broken more often than not nowadays. Cheap bastard.

Hank sat up and let his head swim for a minute. Why do I always feel like shit. Do I need a chiropractor? Acupuncture maybe… He stood and stretched, not unlike the long, lean Mr. B. Coffee. Peanuts. Toast.

Hank stood, leaning on his kitchenette counter and looked reluctantly over to the last place he wanted to look. The yellow telephone in the corner. And the answering machine that sat underneath it. Sure enough, the little green light on the machine was blinking. All at once, Hank felt like crying. He wondered how he’d come to this place, and why am I still here, and where is my family? The answers to all those questions, plainly laid out in his mind, were swept aside. He wanted to drown in the victim-ness of it all. Why me, God, why me? Think: Nick Cage (not the bees).

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Ferg
Ferg

Written by Ferg

A lover of fiction and stories that move. Come in! It's cold out there! I have a fire going- have some hot choco- or tea, I suppose, if you have no taste buds.

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