It was warm and sunny the second time my cousin Bill and I almost died. I was twelve. Bill was thirteen. It was Easter Sunday at Nana and Papa’s farm in Riner, Virginia. We were making napalm.
It's still quite a buzz to see people reacting to Grand Theft Hamlet so positively - this blog here is possibly the most thoughtful, perceptive and well-written response I've seen so far:
He rustled a newspaper and mumbled some news and squeaked his shoes across the floor of the Big Greasy Spoon. He squirted out ketchup and hacked phlegm into his elbow and emitted grunts when something displeased him.
The old lady is at the cash wrap, proudly gripping a t-shirt with a bottle of barbecue sauce plastered across the front. Just this, she says, and it sounds like marbles rattling.
