Austin “I don’t know what else you want me to say, Austin, the papers are legitimate,” the family lawyer snapped. “Find me a solution, don’t just tell me there’s nothing I can do, it’s been days, Wayne,” I said, exasperated. “And do what? Short of raising your father from the dead and making him rewrite it, there’s nothing I can do,” he began to raise his voice. His pudgy face flushed and scrunched up does no good in assuring me that this man can help. He puffs on his cigar and then takes a swig out of his tumbler of scotch. His overall plumpness and lethargy irritate me. “Look, kid, just go with what your mother is telling you,” he points his cigar at me. “We’ve looked over the matter, there’s no way out. You can consult everyone else out there but they’re going to say the same thing, so save yourself the trouble.” He’s antsy to leave and dismissive to the point of discourtesy. A minor inconvenience. It feels like he’s just getting rid of a pesky mosquito, not talking about my
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