Fanboy Sixty 
the Flathead Valley Beacon writers. Here’s another reason why:
On a dark street in suburban Whitefish, something sinister was underway. A private eye, sipping cheap coffee from a dirty Styrofoam cup, peered through binoculars at a neighborhood window, smirking at the apparent scandal he had uncovered. His eyes slitted, he pulled a cigar from his rumpled trench coat and lit up, the smoke climbing toward the moon. Inside, a young couple stirred.
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