Playboy Fiction

Playboy Fiction

Playboy Fiction: The Disgruntled Americans
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Playboy Fiction: The Disgruntled Americans

START WITH THE LETTER… Dear Motherfuckers, This was never about the green-gray-wrinkled denominations of dead presidents. It was about blistering eyes wide open. From the suit in the well-kept suite with a tanned-toned-pedicured wife in a 5,000-square-foot red-stone structure across from the Country Club Golf Course to the beagle-bellied drunk in a goddamned trucker’s cap married to a callus-handed wife in a beat-down trailer of rust planted down a hard-to-find country back road where the land is waiting to be sold and timbered for corporate America. What we wanted to do was wake up every one of you cocksuckers from your stoops of comfort and mundane day-to-day upper, middle or lower bullshit. No social class is safe. Welcome to our goddamned awakening! —The Disgruntled Americans GO BACK TO when a matte-black-primered Chevy Astro van with a 350 small-block thumping under the hood wheels down the faded lot of yellow lines, backs into the first spot in row 11, three men…

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