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You push yourself to the front of the crowd, pushing against the yellow tape, leaning towards a group of firefighters that are discussing the scene.  


"Poor bastard"  They continue "musta tripped over the canvas on the floor."


They continue on, describing how the victim's skull landed squarely on the corner of the fireplace, spilling blood and brains all over the mantle.   


You drop to your knees, unable to hold yourself upright.  At that moment the door opens and three EMT's carry a gurney down the steps, the top soaked in crimson and wheel it out to the ambulance.  


"Shame....He was a young guy."  One of the older firemen shakes his head and puffs on a cigarette. 


"Yeah, shame"  agrees one of the younger ones.  "I wonder if they'll be putting the house up for sale?  Nice place"


Your stomach turns at the frigid quaility of their statement.  


"I don't know.  It is a great place.  Love the color they used in the living room, although they floor will need to be redone.  Can't clean up that much blood"



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