Shirts and jeans litter the asphalt, the empty fabric limbs askew as if they're attempting to escape. Blood smears Sarah's lips as she struggles against the chest of a dirty looking man with a beard. Terror. Terror is the only word my mind can seize on and it forgets what it means. I forget how to think - to move.
AK 47, is perfect copy, yes? Every detail. Like real thing. Yes. Kalashnikov. Your boy, he be happy for Uncle Sante, no?_____ sorry, Sante. It__ really nice of you, but I don__ want Sofus playing with guns.__onversation between George Hanson and SanteIn The Shadow of Sadd
In The Shadow of Sadd
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AK 47, is perfect copy, yes? Every detail. Like real thing. Yes. Kalashnikov. Your boy, he be happy for Uncle Sante, no?_____ sorry, Sante. It__ really nice of you, but I don__ want Sofus playing with guns.__onversation between George Hanson and SanteIn The Shadow of Sadd
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