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Robert Dean is morally corrupt. Living in New Orleans will do that to people. Smelling like a pair of used panties found on the floor of the local Bourbon street parlor of sin, he’s the body sitting at the end of the bar where the hardened drunks go: The last call for humanity. His writing isn’t trite words on paper; it’s a small window into the social underside. The underbelly, with its pink hue and innocent butterfly kisses that create syntax of ideology, the written word is dying and someone needs to breathe life into the bloated corpse. You have been warned. |