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March had his palm read once, years back, by a hack psychic in a gaudy tent at some old timey carnival Holly had begged to go to. She'd taken one look at his craggy hands – two fingers bandaged at the time - and told him, in no uncertain terms, that if he didn't slow down, boy, he was gonna hurt himself. He tipped her very badly.
Suffice to say, he did not often have the appearance of a man in control of his own destiny.
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ohhh yeah this ones reaaaaaaal good