![]() Subscribe to Channel 52 for first view of new videos. “Oh no,” I say, realizing something new about slippery flash drives, and the lawyer giggling says, “Is that - is that you?” Wynant and his lawyer click “Play” and on the screen is a naked middle-aged man in the yellowy light of an incandescent bulb exhorting himself with a well-oiled Smith & Wesson Special. At the climax of dawn, having secured my rent, car payments, new brogues, I get a six-pack of Old Düsseldorf, go home, celebrate solo. “Got you,” I say, following them, finding and climbing the cold, jangly fire escape outside the paramour’s Bohemian apartment, filming them kissing, cuddling, clasping each other tenderly by the crimson glow of a lava lamp. “Get the evidence so we can nail her to the wall.” Three nights later, my rent, car payment, new brogues tumble out of Le Petite Crevette, holding hands, radiating chaos, giggling. Wynant’s going behind his back,” slides a check for 20 times my usual fee at the moment I’m late with rent, car payments, needed new brogues. ![]() Wynant folds his arms under the harsh office fluorescents behind his lawyer speechless with rage, and his sharp-suited lawyer says, “Mrs. ![]()
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