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Frank

He had a mustache that looked like Hitler's.
His eyes were droopier than a bloodhound's,
and when you said hello to him while walking past him on the street,
he replied with a voice lower than Eeyore's.
I hated him.

His tawny hair was slicked back with grease like the groovy kids wore it back-in-the-day, but the 'do reminded me of Donald Trump.
The Napoleon Dynamite ebony tuxedo he sported every Tuesday and Thursday was absurd. It was almost as if his one goal in life was to embarrass himself publicly.
I hated him.

His always over-polished, pointy dress shoes clicked and clacked on the cement as he made his way to work each morning. Eight ten, not a minute sooner and never a second later. He'd adjust his bow tie casually at the bus stop on the corner of Dreary Lane, only four blocks down from my own two-story alabaster house.
I hated him.



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