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New York Is Killing Me


He was bored. He felt old.

The prolonged silence sat in his gut like lead. His throat was burning with questions. He rubbed his thumb roughly against the glass. Already dry.

It wouldn’t be a phone call. A blonde with tits too good to be true brushed his shoulder. His hand twitched. He turned, half-expecting a familiar wink. Good god he really wanted to— to beat the everloving shit out of that face—

"Can I help you?” snapped the owner of the face. (Pretty, dull, unsimian.)

Jigen grunted and pushed his hat down.

When he got back to his car he was in no condition or mood to drive. He reached into his jacket. Paused.

The rearview mirror, like everything else, was dark. The idea was so agonizing that for a moment he forgot to feel ashamed.

He hurriedly lit a cigarette.

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