Leave Them Wanting More

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Dennis pulled a dingy T-shirt over his paunch, looked into the mirror, ran fingers through sparse hair. He grabbed keys and a wallet off the dresser, swallowed cheap whiskey, threw a thin, undersized jacket on, exited the apartment.

At a local dive, he found a barstool near a jukebox, away from the entrance, ordered a double whiskey. Neat. And a beer.

A man came in, sat next to him. “The special?”

“Nothing special about it,” Dennis remarked, and swallowed.

The man signaled the bartender, ordered the same. “San Francisco ain’t so bad,” the man began, snorting, wiping his nose on red flannel. “Finally found a gun shop. Thought I’d get my cock sucked by a faggot before that happened.” The man tossed the drink back, slammed the glass, laughed stupidly.

Dennis grabbed his beer, “Guns?” took a sip, signaled the bartender.

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