Meanness in the South is like where they stab you with a dull, rusty blade and twist it, as it pierces your flesh, then laugh as you collapse over the veranda, and end up tangled and twisted in the honeysuckle and kudzu, on top of a fire ant hill, in faux concern they help you to your feet, and up on the porch for a tall glass of sweet tea, where the arsenic is cleverly concealed by cane sugar. Venom veiled in velvet blackness.
WELCOME,
HOME.
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