Grampa Hillson doesn’t have any teeth, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have bite.  The man opens his mouth and the bon mots, mean as they are, tumble out like teeth do in dreams.  This guy’s got a way of excoriating even the most self-proclaimed tough guys, those who with wide, booze-created grins displaying a wide variety of dentition, have called him names they’ve pulled from their ample asses.  It’s a beautiful thing to see, from my vantage point under a tattered sleeping bag on top of a cardboard box in the corner of the abandoned playground we call home.

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