I saw Lana Clarkson the day before she was murdered (yes, I get to say that term legally now). She was walking around the Los Angeles comic convention I was attending, convivial, pleasant, chatting with everyone, sweet as anything, unaware that some sick bášŧárd was going to kill her that night and try to weasel out of it because, hey, in Los Angeles, celebrities are never convicted.
Not this time.
I hope Phil Spector rots in prison.
PAD
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