There I was – laying down in the backseat of the Chevy Vega, being propelled at a ludicrous speed down highway 215 halfway between Las Vegas and LA. In the front seats, Brent and his wife Nancy screamed at each other – foul, hurtful messages fired back and forth between them like well-placed sniper shots. Brent still wore the tuxedo he and I rented in S…
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