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By now, you may have guessed that this happened to me. Twice. I didn’t have the $6,795, so both books are spiral bound and languishing in my desk drawer.
Okay! Okay! You force me to reveal the plots of my books.
The first is about an incompetent, 23-member motorcycle club called Satan’s Saints. These guys cannot commit a successful crime. They cannot brew a batch of methamphetamine; it explodes or starts a roaring fire in their laboratory. They were apprehended red-handed in every liquor store stick-up that they ever attempted.
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