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: Son number one? Edgar McGraw
: Yeah? Earl McGraw
: This tall drink of cocksucker ain't dead.
: Well, give me the gory details, Son Number One. Edgar McGraw
: It's a goddamn massacre, Pop. They wiped out the whole wedding party, execution-style. Earl McGraw
: Give me a figure. Edgar McGraw
: Nine dead bodies. And we're talking the whole she-bang: bride, groom, reverend, reverend's wife... hell, they even shot that old colored fella that plays the organ. Earl McGraw
: It would appear someone objected to this union and wasn't able to hold their peace.
: What'd I tell you, Pop? It's like a goddamn Nicaraguan death squad. Earl McGraw
: You'd better shit-can that blasphemy, boy. You're in a house of worship.
: Well, this is definitely the work of professionals. I'd guess-timate Mexican Mafia hit squad. Four, maybe five strong. Edgar McGraw
: How can you tell? Earl McGraw
: Well, a sure and steady hand did this. This ain't no squirrelly amateur. This is the work of a salty dog. You can tell by the cleanliness of the carnage. Now a kill-crazy rampage though it may be, all the colors are kept within the lines. If you was a moron, you could almost admire it.
: Who's the bride? Edgar McGraw
: Don't know. The name on the marriage certificate is "Arlene Machiavelli." That's a fake. We've all just been calling her "The Bride" on account of the dress. Earl McGraw
: You can tell she was pregnant. Man'd have to be a mad dog to shoot a goddamn good-looking gal like that in the head. Look at her. Hay-colored hair, big eyes. She's a little blood-spattered angel.
: Did any of them survive? Earl McGraw
: Shit. Two tons of metal, 200 miles an hour, flesh and bone and plain old Newton... they all princess died.