Some of us travel with license and registration handy, others with the requisite “I’m dead, so blow me†note. Such missives are necessary for those of us actively sought for the abduction of our 14 year-old stepdaughters.
History does not record what transpired between the two from the moment of Sheila’s abduction and her discovery in that hotel, but if it was worthy of daddy’s suicide, we can assume it was nothing good.
Had Donald rolled down the window of his Nash, or Plymouth, or Hudson, as the bulls approached? Did the folks within this handsome collection of prewar apartments hear a muffled pop, or a startling crack? Could Sheila-Shirley feel his head explode, wherever she was?
