The iceman walked laboriously down the suburban street, carrying the hefty load upon his broken back. He had delivered blocks of ice to middle-class housewives for five years, and his back screamed in agony and torture. It was not as if the iceman’s body was broken or hurt – it was a scar of a different source. It was the ever-deepening impression left by the bag of weights, the valley being carved into his soul.
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