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Gill must go.
Terry was right about needing to get back at Gill. I never liked that guy even though he gave me some cool toys when I was little and even gave me a remote control airplane that looks just like the Red Baron's plane from WWII. There was something different about him and not just the weird accent and tiny cigarettes that look, honest to God, like skinny cigars and stink twice as much. They smell like someone's burning a turd even though I never smelled a turd burning but I bet it would stink like his cigarillos do.

Dad and Gill owned a business together years ago, a TV repair shop and shoe repair shop and they had a soda shop in the back with a dozen pinball machines and a foosball table where all the kids in town hung out after school. That's how the foosball table got delivered to us by mistake, the game supply company messed up and thought Dad and Gill's shop was still open and shipped a table to whatever address they still had for them.

For every good toy and game and pat on the head Gill gave me or Terry there were at least two times when he would tease us and stuff our own socks in our mouths and sit on our chests making fun of what weak little girls he said we were. Every night after he and Gill closed up their shop and walked down the block to our house, Dad would have a shot of whiskey and a beer with Gill and then the two of them would wrestle and look for one of us to rough house with. I never really thought it was all that weird until Gill kissed Terry.

Him feeding us our socks and all the other weird stuff made me want to kill him, just the way that Terry now wanted to get him for kissing him on the mouth.

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