Thomas Pynchon. Shadow Ticket. Penguin Press, 2025.
I.
A representative scene in Shadow Ticket, the ninth novel by Thomas Pynchon, sees Hicks McTaggart—a Milwaukee private eye newly marooned in a stylized noir fantasia of 1932 Central Europe—receive a theory of political economy by way of a stranger’s account of the workings of a multinational cheese cartel. “Most civilians,” asserts this customer (a coked-up Viennese Interpol operative of dubious allegiance named Egon Praediger), don’t have “the least idea how difficult the International Cheese Syndicate can become. The Roquefort police, the Gorgonzola squadri, even Switzerland—harmless by comparison.” OK, seems at first to be your basic deployment of Pynchon’s canonical “shady conglomerates with cheeky names” schtick. (This being a novel that also features the law enforcement classifications SMEGMA (Semi-Military Entity Greater Milwaukee Area) and BAGEL (Bureau Administering Golems Employed Locally).) But then Praediger downshifts into a more somber mode:
This is the ball bearing on which everything since 1919 has gone pivoting, this year is when it all begins to come apart. Europe trembles, not only with fear but with desire. Desire for what has almost arrived, deepening over us, a long erotic buildup before the shuddering instant of clarity, a violent collapse of civil order which will spread from a radiant point in or near Vienna, rapidly and without limit in every direction, and so across the continents, trackless forests and unvisited lakes, plaintext suburbs and cryptic native quarters, battlefields historic and potential, prairie drifted over the horizon with enough edible prey to solve the Meat Question forever . . .
As our gumshoe Hicks might say: “Howzat?” In the span of a few sentences, the conversation has gone from a pun-drunk riff on Europe’s draconian food labeling standards into a harsh-toke diagnosis of continentwide death drive, gesturing, variously, at the Bataillean notion of war as orgiastic release, the history of settler-colonialism from Manifest Destiny to Lebensraum, and imminent atrocity rendered nightmarishly euphemistic. But quick as they’ve gathered, the storm clouds pass: two pages and a few schnupfs of cocaine later, the characters have moved on to psychic smuggling rings and swing tunes, and Praediger has presented Hicks with a new Walther PPK (aka James Bond’s gun, fresh off its ’31 debut). We’re back in pulp fiction wonderland, in other words, the fleeting apocalyptic allusions having been yoinked offstage by a vaudeville hook from the wings.
Such moments flow freely through the endearingly weird Shadow Ticket, which doesn’t so much reprise the 88-year-old Pynchon’s longstanding writerly proclivities as condense them, squishing a lifetime’s worth of narrative moves into his lowest pagecount since The Crying of Lot 49. Maybe you know the drill: metahistorical intrigue and antiauthoritarian politics; several deep benches’ worth of quirky characters toting loudly emblematic affectations and not-strictly-probable names; song-and-dance numbers with rhythmically typeset lyrics and toy instrument arrangements, plus screwball wordplay and cartoon pratfalls and gags, gags, gags. Shadow Ticket hits each beat, surfacing the dependable tropes of its settings (Prohibition-era Milwaukee, interwar Budapest, and the densely folkloric borderlands of Eastern Europe) and marshaling them into a grand pastiche that any Pynchhead in good standing will find happily familiar.
For my money, though, the book is most interesting for those aforementioned moments of tonal whiplash, scenes wherein big shifts of register or reference point are undertaken with remarkably little in the way of narrative scaffolding. Shadow Ticket, in addition to being extremely fun and almost indecently readable, is also replete with edges left conspicuously unsanded, a combination that might go some way toward frustrating or at least reframing the prevailing misconception of Pynchon as a willfully difficult, high-maximalist, paranoid outsider-recluse. It’s a reputation that has obscured a clear view of the author’s work in one form or another for the entirety of a long career, alternately burnishing the image of an enigmatic hipster sage or offering up a strawman for the excesses and overreaches of the showoff tradition he supposedly epitomizes. It’s made the name “Thomas Pynchon” into a byword for inaccessible genius, the Trystero horn into an enduring stall-wall Sharpie tag, and Gravity’s Rainbow into a punchline on The O.C., but, meanwhile, the, you know, actualbooks? Those have drifted considerably from these mythic calcifications, gradually resolving into a scope and style more characterized by shaggy plotting, political generosity, and out-and-out sweetness than anything resembling the lit-bro hazing rituals that some contemporary readers have been conditioned to expect. While this divergence isn’t new—to my ear the texts started Watusi-ing decisively away from the legend sometime around the publication of Vineland (1990)—it’s taken the most recent novels to really drive the point home. Through Mason & Dixon (1997) and Against the Day (2006) and, especially, in the detective trilogy of Inherent Vice (2009), Bleeding Edge (2013), and now Shadow Ticket, Pynchon has relaxed into a late style that, beyond its superficial accessibility and in spite if not because of more than a few imperfections and clunkers, is clarifying on the level of mission. In the ease with which he wields genre and technique to make good on the countervailing populisms he’s been expressing for decades, the Pynchon of Shadow Ticket—inviting, avuncular, and confidently economical, though no less footloose—has much to teach us about what the larger project has always been. Cue the kazoos.
II.
Maybe it’s worth stipulating a quick rule of thumb. This one is adapted from Randolph Driblette, The Crying of Lot 49’s sleazoid dinner-theater director, who responds to Oedipa Maas’s intrusive questions about the Jacobean revenge drama he’s just staged with a handy admonishment on overinterpretation:
“Why,” Driblette said at last, “is everybody so interested in texts? . . . You can put together clues, develop a thesis, or several, about why characters reacted to the Trystero possibility the way they did, why the assassins came on, why the black costumes. You could waste your life that way and never touch the truth.”
Out of respect to Randy (may he rest in peace), we can go ahead and broaden this warning into a generalized Reader’s Mantra, something like The instinct to try and distill a unifying takeaway from an author’s oeuvre is, more often than not, a straight-up trap. It’s a useful enough sentiment to apply to any writer, but should probably have been emblazoned in fairground neon over the gates of Pynchonland long ago.
Instead, of course, Pynchon’s sizable body of work (some 5,000 pages of fiction plus a small handful of articles and essays), combined with a famously less sizable quantity of personal or autobiographical information, have produced a reader cult uniquely prone to obsessional excess. The novels have been vivisected across countless journals and print zines, conference papers and reader’s guides, listservs and wikis and subreddits, and if the accumulated effort has accomplished some valuable demystification of various arcane references and primary sources, it has also normalized an unfortunate tendency to collapse the reading experience into a hunt for “hidden meanings” and nurtured some sorry cases of trees-for-forest diplopia. All to say: probably a good idea, when trying to craft any larger point about dude or his work, to make like Driblette advises and cool it with the exegeting.
But if there is, blessedly, no such thing as a Thomas Pynchon Decoder Ring, there are still plenty of ways to engage generatively with his written record, to read in ways that draw on enough contextual and cross-novel richness to undermine the pull of pedantic overanalysis. With a little bit of distance—and a proportionately diminished temptation to fixate on any single book’s sacrosanct character—a number of interpretive possibilities emerge that can account for the writing’s many wonders while also acknowledging its author’s fallibilities and blind spots. This is especially true for the early novels, which cemented Pynchon’s legend and codified its enduring features while also betraying shakier stylistic and political footings than are included in their towering reps.
Take V., which appeared in March 1963 (when Pynchon was, unforgivably, not yet 26), and garnered astonished reviews as much for the precociousness of its author as for its intricately modernist, nakedly ambitious structure. Among innumerable flexes, the book features chapter-by-chapter alternations between the contemporary (that is, mid-’50s) peregrinations of the lovelorn ex-Navy schlemihl Benny Profane and a half-century’s worth of historical flashpoints, indexed obsessively by the enigmatic but imperious Herbert Stencil. The present-day action has wonderful setpieces—there’s a reason everyone remembers the sewer alligators—as well as some counterculture-scene social analysis that still checks out; there is, also, a fair amount of sophomoric male sex whining, and misogyny both casual and dressy. Mostly, though, there is the leadfooted humorlessness of the book’s historical deep dives, which have a markedly secondhand feel, an airless procession of drawing-room intrigues among representatives of the fin-de-siècle European powers. The vibe is a stuffy explorer’s club worldliness that keeps noisily justifying itself, or maybe a version of Spy vs. Spy where you aren’t allowed to laugh.
In the uncharacteristically first-person introduction to the short story collection Slow Learner (1984), Pynchon would contextualize some of this early work with a self-effacing candor that’s still charming. He had a youthful obsession with espionage fiction, he wrote, whose “net effect was eventually to build up in my uncritical brain a peculiar shadowy vision of the history preceding the two world wars.” V.’s follow-ups, the all-time bangers The Crying of Lot 49 (1966) and Gravity’s Rainbow (1973), would see Pynchon refine and vary his thematic and stylistic approaches by many extraordinary degrees, but the sinister conspiratorial frameworks enumerated by the novels ultimately double down on those “shadowy visions,” prewar and otherwise. Theirs is a world-historical conceptualization of tremendous instructive value (one whose conclusions have, needless to say, spent the last fifty-odd years getting proven righter by the day); they are also the reason that reader fetishes for concealed meanings, pattern recognition, and “paranoia”—as a contextless abstraction—have been irreducible features of Pynchon’s fandom ever since.
Where this early fiction articulates a kind of underdog leftism, the feel is likewise schematic. Though Pynchon had, in June 1966, taken Los Angeles’s racial disparities and responsive uprising as the subject of his only published piece of journalism (“A Journey Into the Mind of Watts,” in The New York Times Magazine), the novels seemed intent on operating on a loftier scale. Gravity’s Rainbow, for instance, posits a hard binary between “the Elect” and “the Preterite”: categories borrowed from Calvinist theology, repurposed within the novel’s putatively comprehensive world-system to denote those whom our power structure rewards and those whom it grinds underfoot. Pynchon’s underclass allegiance is clear, but his reverent eulogy for “the last poor Pret’rite one” sometimes has an on-the-nose, essentializing feel, also detectable in, for instance, Oedipa Maas’s long night of after-hours encounters with immiserated San Franciscans. Atop these novels’ cosmic staging grounds, the undifferentiated poor carry an important messianic charge, but their individual humanities are not—at least, not comparatively—as visible.
III.
How to start a reader cult: drop a stone-cold masterpiece, give precisely zero interviews, and stay quiet for a decade. In the ill-starred years following Gravity’s Rainbow, all anybody heard from Pynchon was secondhand gossip, running the gamut from true-ish (he had signed a multi-book deal with Viking, for which he was expected to deliver one novel on the Mason-Dixon line and one on Mothra) to misconceived (he was the real author of the pseudonymous “Wanda Tinasky letters,” a series of comic essays published in two Northern California papers) to wildly embarrassing (he was William Gaddis; or, no, he was Salinger).
When the first post–Gravity’s Rainbow writing finally appeared, it was healthily myth-puncturing. In April 1984, Little, Brown published Slow Learner, whose revealing contents were as much a means of heading off the spread of bootleg chapbook editions as anything else. The collection, consisting of the author’s short-story juvenilia alongside that sweetly autobiographical intro, suggested a guru who was not only more forthcoming than advertised, but who was a real working author living, and offering straightforward counsel, from inside the real world. (On the youthful writerly tendency to posture and bullshit: “Somewhere I had come up with the notion that one’s personal life had nothing to do with fiction, when the truth, as everyone knows, is nearly the direct opposite. . . . In any case, stupid kid, I preferred fancy footwork instead.”)
A still more telling example is the essay “Is It O.K. to Be a Luddite?,” a statement of quiet purpose written by Pynchon in October 1984 and published as, of all things, a New York Times op-ed. The piece was ostensibly a comment on the twenty-fifth anniversary of C.P. Snow’s much-debated “Two Cultures” lecture, in which the British chemist/novelist/knighted baron posited a growing polarization between the scientific and humanistic classes, and decried as “natural Luddites” those members of the intelligentsia who failed to sufficiently revere the technological inheritances of the Industrial Revolution. Though Pynchon’s essay begins as a relatively gentle rebuke, it isn’t long before he’s dispensed with the Snovian pretext outright in favor of an interrogation of the history of Luddism, identifying that movement’s apocryphal standard-bearer—a man who, in 1779, purportedly destroyed two hosiery-knitting machines in a technophobic rage—as a kind of romantic hero:
Ned Lud’s anger was not directed at the machines, not exactly. I like to think of it more as the controlled, martial-arts type anger of the dedicated Badass. . . . There is a long folk history of this figure, the Badass. He is usually male, and while sometimes earning the quizzical tolerance of women, is almost universally admired by men for two basic virtues: he is Bad, and he is Big. Bad meaning not morally evil, necessarily, more like able to work mischief on a large scale. What is important here is the amplifying of scale, the multiplication of effect.
The contemporary reader can of course pick up on the queasily exoticizing vibe (“martial-arts type,” plus “Badass” itself, a term one can at least presume to have been a bit less shopworn in 1984), to say nothing of the acknowledged macho-ness going on here. But then Pynchon doggedly traces the way this macho trope has been instrumentalized to provide cover for a reality that’s humbler, more workaday, and broadly inclusive:
The knitting machines which provoked the first Luddite disturbances had been putting people out of work for well over two centuries. Everybody saw this happening—it became part of daily life. They also saw the machines coming more and more to be the property of men who did not work, only owned and hired. It took no German philosopher, then or later, to point out what this did, had been doing, to wages and jobs. . . . What gave King Ludd his special Bad charisma, took him from local hero to nationwide public enemy, was that he went up against these amplified, multiplied, more than human opponents and prevailed. When times are hard, and we feel at the mercy of forces many times more powerful, don’t we, in seeking some equalizer, turn, if only in imagination, in wish, to the Badass—the djinn, the golem, the hulk, the superhero—who will resist what otherwise would overwhelm us? Of course, the real or secular frame-bashing was still being done by everyday folks, trade unionists ahead of their time, using the night, and their own solidarity and discipline, to achieve their multiplications of effect.
Alright, now we’re talking. Besides unflinchingly IDing the forces whose enrichment has always been the real engine behind the genteel accountings of men like Snow (and avoiding all ambiguity by calling Marx redundant on the subject), Pynchon has also reframed the Big, Bad folk hero. Here, Ned Lud has been reconfigured as something like a messianic projection, a sustaining embodiment of a class-wide liberation devoutly and deliberately invoked by resisting masses across centuries of exploitation. It’s a version of Lud that’d slot well into the theological/materialist vision of history offered in Gravity’s Rainbow, except here there’s also a second, complementary history: that of a “real or secular” world, in which resistance takes forms that are more prosaic but just as identifiably heroic. In Pynchon’s reading, the lone-wolf “Badass” has become an organized body of “everyday folks,” and large-scale “mischief” has transformed into furtive, deliberately clandestine forms of practical intervention. The focus, that is, is now on simple countervailing action: accumulated acts of popular resistance, doing their ad hoc but necessary work behind the veil of myth.
IV.
The Luddite essay (which goes on, remarkably, to anatomize the Gothic novel, condemn the contemporary military-industrial complex, and finish off with a warning about the AI bubble?!) was published, as mentioned, in 1984. There’s plenty to say about Pynchon’s evident love for Orwell; he even penned an admiring foreword to a “centennial edition” of 1984 in 2003. But the dateline might be most relevant for its role in Vineland, which dropped in early 1990 but takes place six years prior.
By the mid-’80s—with Reagan having taken 49 states for reelection and Dynasty #1 on the Tube ratings—it was clear that whatever promises of countercultural Badassery the 1960s had held were being violently rolled back. Vineland, in attending to this grim conjuncture, might show Pynchon at his most attuned; it’s a work, anyway, in which the oeuvre’s sometimes unsteady balance between ambition, accessibility, and earnestness hangs just right. Amid no shortage of cartoon moves (my favorite being an in-flight encounter between a 747 and a UFO), Vineland features two of Pynchon’s most tenderly realized protagonists: Zoyd and Prairie Wheeler, the damaged father-daughter unit whose shared losses form the basis for a fragile and rebellious familial love that’s altogether nobler than the loudly revolutionary blunders in whose wake they’ve had to build their lives. It’s impossible to read, say, Zoyd’s recounting of early parenthood (“his belated moment of welcome to the planet Earth, in which he knew, dismayingly, that he would, would have to, do anything to keep this dear small life from harm”) and not pick up on a shift from Gravity’s Rainbow’s transhistorical grandeur toward small-scale, nonconformist domesticity.
A growing comfort with sentimentality feels, too, like the primary carryover from Vineland into Mason & Dixon and Against the Day, even if much of the critical interest in those latter and longer novels was confined, at least initially, to rejoicing over the return they represented to the author’s vaunted maximalist epic mode. (T.C. Boyle re M&D in the NYTBR: “This is the old Pynchon, the true Pynchon, the best Pynchon of all.”) But beyond the page counts and the inducements to crowdsource a reference or cameo, the stories and styles—even Mason & Dixon’s giddy facsimile of 18th-century English—are deceptively simple, characterized by a mixture of sumptuous but irreverent historical action and naked emotion. Is there a more affecting entanglement with heartbreak in all of Pynchon than Charles Mason’s grief over his dead wife Rebekah? Is there a neater throughline across Against the Day’s multiversal infinities than the characters’ dogged, decades-spanning searches for lost loved ones?
There’s something instructive, as well, about these later books’ explicit turn toward the tropes and textures of genre fiction. If there were any remaining doubt about the insufficiency of the author’s reputation as a schematic and paranoid mystic-crank, this surge of goofy genre conventions ought to have finished the job. In addition to suggesting, gratifyingly, that Pynchon was finally allowing himself to indulge the pulpy forms he’s obviously loved since before V., his strategy of running Mason & Dixon and Against the Day’s historical and sociopolitical concerns (the Enlightenment’s colonial hypocrisies and mounting corporatocratic rule, the Gilded Age’s capitalist violence and doomed anarchist counterattacks) through the style filters of the popular fiction of their respective days (frame stories, Sternean comic novels, 19th-century boys’ adventure books, dimestore Westerns, etc. etc.) results in some rollickingly enjoyable vernacular storytelling. It also allows Pynchon to move away from the apparent omniscience of the classically maximalist voice, even to disempower it. These later novels contain no shortage of conspiratorial overtures and world-systems theorizing—but, having been unhesitatingly pastiche-ified and, as often, offloaded to characters who wear a conspicuous genre wackiness on their sleeves, those elements go down smooth, even as the plots they delineate multiply and interpenetrate beyond anything seen in the early novels.
This new profusion of voices also amounts to a reversal of those prior books’ tendency to subordinate character specifics to overarching system narratives. Where Oedipa’s blighted San Franciscans and Gravity’s Rainbow’s preterite masses could feel shortchanged on the page in favor of those books’ grandiose history-wide priorities, in Mason & Dixon and Against the Day (as, indeed, in Inherent Vice, Bleeding Edge, and Shadow Ticket), the characters are splashier than ever, but the world itself is losing coherence. The result is a reading experience at once more “accessible,” maybe even more straightforwardly entertaining, but also more ambiguous, characterized by a chorus of unresolved meanings and decentered plotting that places them, to my mind, well beyond the 1:1 decoding capacities of even the closest-reading exegetist. Randolph Driblette, one senses, would be proud.
V.
So here’s Pynchon now: nearly 90 years old, having oracularly diagnosed more than half a century of American life in a wide variety of accents, and three novels deep on a run of oddly shaped mysteries in which his pulpiest style exercises share space with undisguised sentiment, a lightly worn leftism, and a loose interweave of uncertainties.
Each text kicks off in time with a hard-boiled formula you can set your metronome by: our jaded detective (Doc Sportello, Maxine Tarnow, Hicks McTaggart) receives an apparently innocuous lead or “you didn’t hear it from me”–style hot tip, then traces it up down and sideways through concentric rings that eventually implicate entire power establishments and centers of so-called law and order. Along the way, occult or speculative phenomena express themselves and the detective mixes with scores of walk-on characters who, in addition to presenting reams of casework and conflicting clues, also signpost the era’s spiraling sociopolitical currents. Before we quite know it, though, we’ve fallen out of step: the mystery’s leads dry up on our P.I. who, sensing the vast reach and chaotic volatilities of the forces (s)he’s messed with, resolves to take comfort where (s)he can, in family or private forms of mourning. Meanwhile, resolution? It just sort of glides away, on a cartel schooner or a tech bro’s limo or—this time around—an unsurrendered WWI submarine.
Shadow Ticket’s expansive early 1930s setting offers new configurations for these familiar elements, as well as a handful of moves that go quite a ways past rearrangements of furniture. In Hicks, Pynchon has chosen a protagonist who reads, at least at first, as every bit the wisecracking private eye out of central casting—a big lug with a heart of gold, working the streets of a late-Prohibition Milwaukee alongside a TCM-approved entourage that includes a delinquent kid sidekick, a no-nonsense office secretary, and a returning character from Against the Day. When a firebombing takes place that can’t be reliably pinned on what’s left of Al Capone’s Chicago Outfit (or on the Bolsheviks, anarchists, or American Nazi sympathizers also vying for Midwestern real estate), Hicks gets plot-machinated into a quest to track down a cheese-fortune heiress, missing somewhere out in deepest, darkest ultranationalist Europe. At which point things Pynchonify all the more: spies, counterspies, spiritualists, and magicians start showing up, Big Band jazzers and “baby-talking lulu[s]” intersect with fascist gangs amid the disputed lands haloing post-Trianon Hungary; languages from across the ragged borders of the continental powderkeg get spoken, plus a bunch of Esperanto; and we steam into various free ports, autonomous zones of exile “out beyond the pickle patches,” and libertine hangouts teeming with behavior that the author politely files under “whoopee of many persuasions.”
It’s fun, and madcap, and sometimes maddening, in the respective ratios that readers of Inherent Vice and Bleeding Edge might recall. There’s a deeper strangeness, too, in Shadow Ticket’s tendency toward radical compression, in its feeling of Pynchon pulling his usual moves on something of a speedrun basis. Sentence by sentence, entire histories and relationships are related via one or two lines of semi- or unattributed dialogue, while whole conversations, densely laid-in with arch hepcat slang and flirty barbs, go by as pure transcript without any solid grounding in physical space or time. (“That’s really how I come across?” “Heck, Toots, I don’t even know if you do.” “Talk about suave. How’s that one work back in Wauwatosa?” “Have I been mashing on you? No wonder I’m such a hit with the dames, out there pitching woo, half the time I don’t even know it.”) And away we go, with characters so stylized as to be readymades set loose to collide and vanish and reappear in the book’s progressively woozy genre dreamscapes—even as the harbingers of an imminent, real-deal geopolitical cataclysm commence piling up around them.
Which is, approximately, how we end up with such moments as Egon Praediger’s disquisition on the “Meat Question,” or the several other instances in which the book’s default “breezy chitchat” mode faceplants over the approaching Holocaust. (Another character, to a crew of actual paramilitary fascists: “You boys sure get cranked up over anything Jewish, don’tcha.”) If there’s a method to this tonal madness, it lies in this zone of noisy overlap, in which fiction tropes are shamelessly leveraged against actual history until, in the resulting distortion, new and scarcely perceptible possibilities begin to ring out. The strange math of Shadow Ticket means the book is nearly over before the reader comes to understand that Hicks, along with his small chamber orchestra of genre types, has joined up with—of all the vaudevillian stage tricks—a kind of underground antifascist network, a scrappy affinity group dedicated to “infrastructures of resistance and escape” and suggested, in a climactic moment of veil-piercing earnestness, to prompt in our detective hero the simple “understanding of what you should have been doing with your life all along.”
If Shadow Ticket’s patchwork of revolutionary solidarity isn’t a perfect match for the “real or secular frame-bashing . . . done by everyday folks” that Pynchon held up as the ideal of the Ned Lud era, neither is it a glib postmodern performance (or, still less, the simple repository of wacky cheez puns some reviewers have been content to describe it as). What it is, though, is somehow unsettled: a book in which, even as narratives fracture, tonal centers fail to hold, and mysteries go unsolved, something like justice has just enough time to make itself known before the clock runs out—as in, not-altogether-coincidentally, the moment of “the last delta-t” that closed the author’s best-known and most rigorously analyzed novel. That book, of course, featured another ragtag Counterforce, a group of far-flung rebels scampering across history toward a long-deferred redemption, “using the night, and their own solidarity and discipline, to achieve their multiplications of effect.” And while Shadow Ticket will certainly not receive the degree of scrutiny that Gravity’s Rainbow has, you can bet it will continue to attract more than its fair share of discourse, Talmudic textual decipherment, and varieties of interpretation both over- and under- from the Pynchon readership/commentariat. No matter that not every approach feels equally on target, exactly. The fact is, it’s all in keeping with the mission, which has room for everybody, and anyway, looks on the crusade for hard conclusions with what the author might call “an unsociable O-O.” Or, as another weary old lawman puts it to Hicks:
“Just so long as you ain’t one of these metaphysical detectives, out looking for Revelation. Get to reading too much crime fiction in the magazines, start thinking it’s all about who done it. What really happened. Hidden history. Oh, yeah. Seeing all the cards at the end of a hand. For some, that kinda thing gets religious mighty quick.”
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