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The whiskey curse
I can smell the whiskey on your breath. Your words, they smash together like colliding birds, awkward and unsettled. Your hands, your rough caloused hands, they grip the front of my shirt in angry fists. Your large swollen, drunken eyes shift and slide beneath their sockets. Leering at me daring me to utter one word. But courageously I sputter a measly heart felt statement, a statement that makes you stop a second and rethink what you are about to do.
“Remember what you said yesterday? Where is that man now?”
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