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A dive bar after dark, on a deserted corner in the Los Angeles night. Outside, a neon sign flickers into the fog, lighting the flanks of a few black cars, and an old phone booth. Inside the bar the floors are dirty and the customers few. The jukebox plays all the hits of 1945, ten years too late; and bellied up to the bar a few sad sacks in ill-fitting suits stare into their liquor like they don't remember arriving and they've got no plans to leave.

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