Well, I'd just prefer to leave some to the imagination. It's always so much more fun that way.My love letter, I placed behind every other letter, bil..., and all that jazz sent through snail mail. Most of it was shit.As I stepped through the door of my house, in which I lived alone, that aroma hit me like a wall. It enveloped and teased me, pulled and played with my senses. That damned cologne...and I was quite sure the love letter hidden behind the crapload of junk mail -- its scent wasn't. I shook my head.His look told me it was futile.The trial had begun. The first three days were over; the "victim" had told her story, and it had been corroborated by a friend of hers, a little cunt named Sherry.I was walking around my living room, my left knee giving me hell. I'd been injured playing football in high school, and while it was usually not a problem, stress brought out a bit of pain. I used a small cane to help me on those days.Arthur, my attorney, said, "Please, do two things for. More

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