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Nate Slade is from the Twin Cities, a philosopher by education, but definite bad guy of the independent press: He writes tales so extreme that even we cannot consume them head on. No psychological insight, nor juicy paradox, could justify the cerebral enjoyment of their wicked crimes, without us looking away--perhaps down, at unyielding flesh.
Grasp it.
The corpse of Nate's past is a rough thing. The body of it lay in East STP, where he once called home. From his bedroom window there, he witnessed gang fights, the stabbing of his neighbor's wife and daughter, and drug distributions.
Take a bite.
However, he also resided in one of Vancouver, BC's richest neighborhoods, West Point Grey, while he earned a graduate degree between the Philosophy and Cognitive Science Departments at the University of British Columbia. But, apart from having plenty of experience across socioeconomic levels (between street- and book- smart people), he's spent ungodly hours hunting and fishing and masturbating across 200 acres of prime north wood real estate, his grandfather’s, which surrounds a private access lake.
You don't wish to foot the bill?
Sometimes the city calls to him, and when it does, he speaks in necromantic tongue. He prods all the wrong places for you. So, dear sexpot, read that you may wince, and gush that you might read again, or quite simply, shrivel in abject terror.
We call that desert, but do please order: This horrid stuff only keeps so long.
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