The Breakfast of Champions
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Breakfast that morning was special: lukewarm gravy consisting of flour lumps and either sausage crumbles or shit balls dribbled over a soggy piece of French toast. A hot cup of coffee-flavored water complemented the meal.

“Jesus Christ, are they tryin’ to kill us now?” Guarnere asked, gazing at the gelatinous repast suspended from his fork.

“It’f afully not fo bad,” Luz said, enthusiastically clearing his plate. “Juft don’t look at it.”

“I can’t help but look at it, it’s disgustin’.”

“Givvita me then.”

“No way, I’m starvin’,” Guarnere muttered, then looked down at the gruesome puddle on his plate. “Unfortunately.”


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