In any language, it’s fucking CHEEEEESE. I continue my spiteful admiration for Stuart Woods, who writes his masturbatory fantasies every three months and makes it on to the NYT Bestseller Lists, because airports need books you can read in the time it takes to take a solid shit. And a solid shit this is. To explain the plot would be to jab a fork in your ear and swirl spaghetti from your brains. Woods continues to Mary Sue and I continue to gorge on it shamefully.
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