"But sweetie," complained Mom, "What about the MEATLOAF?!"The what? Meatloaf? Screw the meatloaf. The damned meatloaf could go swing for all I cared. ...ight now there were far more important things to take care of than the fucking meatloaf. Mom was still wearing her orange oven mitts as I deftly maneuvered her out of the kitchen towards the sitting room where I intended to have my wicked way with her despite her feeble protestations. Determined, I bent her over the left-hand arm of the sofa so. The larger van headed over to Angela’s apartment. They backed up the sidewalk until they were close to her front door. By the time the back doors were opened not much of what was going on could be seen from the parking lot. Two men dressed in work clothes got out and opened the door. They looked around, and based on the information they had been given initially, plus the updates, just quickly grabbed her clothes, the TV and DVD player, as well as her toiletries. It took them about twenty. More

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