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By Jack Joseph Smith
During, a mid June afternoon in the year nineteen
sixty six, a twenty-five year old Stavrogin Bash
rubbed the dead nerve ending scars across his fore-
head while getting out of a spanking new purple Mus-
tang heading south along the Old Pacific Coast High-
way up from the far beach end of the Santa Monica
Freeway, and to a diametrically, sensitively quiet,
yet high strung teen aged blond girl looking to be
just old enough for a driver's licence, said, "thanks
for the ride."