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North Of Diddy-Wah-Diddy The train to Hell don't stop in New Jersey. It pulls out of Grand Central Station at midnight, moving slow at first but steadily picking up speed as it passes under the Bay, and by the time we hit the refineries, it's cannonballing. We don't stop for nothing. We don't stop for nobody. And if you step in our way expecting Old Goatfoot to apply the brakes, well, pardon me for saying it, but you're going to get exactly what's coming to you. We don't stop and we don't slow down once that gleaming black-andsilver locomotive leaves the station. Not 'til we get to where we're going. Once we're rolling, there's no second chances. And no exceptions neither. So that night the train did stop, I knew straight off that we were in for some serious trouble. We were barreling through the Pine Barrens, shedding smoke and sulfur and sparks, when I heard the air brakes squeal. The train commenced to losing velocity. I was just about to open the snack bar, but right off I heard that sound, I flipped around the CLOSED sign, grabbed my cap, and skittered off to see what the matter was. The damned were slumped in their seats. Some of them stared straight ahead |
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