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Imagine if Kerouac wrote The Bourne Identity...
When a former government trained killing machine starts killing again the only other member of the program leaves retirement to take him down + lengthy meditations on Tom Waits music, French and Italian poetry, diner food, New Orleans, and the isolation of modernity.
Long before the anticlimax I had decided that anything less (more?) than an anticlimax would betray the rest of the book.