Happy Hour

From the sidewalk, T.S. Bar gave a vibrant aura. Open casement windows let out the speaker cringes of jukebox anthems, while bar chatter and laughter and shrieks of greetings mingled with the clink and crash of empty bottles into trash cans. The chalk board sign by the door read in colorful, loopy letters; ‘Jack & …

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To Fatso

Petty looked like he needed a hand. “Let me help you.” I said to him. He was dragging the body of a man across the hallway, toward the stairwell. “Much obliged.” Petty returned to me, in his normal courteous manner. He pushed his gold-tinted sunglasses up his nose. I attempted to pick up the man’s …

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