To think you’re still maintaining that old score as if you were bartending, and my tab was full of unpaid drinks. I swear you’re like a Roomba swooping round a polished floor in search of any strand of lint to grab, or vultures waiting for a car to strike some sorry squirrel. Justice is on strike, you mutter, while your heavy hand is scoring gouges in the tabletop. I grab another can of beer and pull the tab and foam pours out and soaks the vinyl flooring like the Red Sea drowning Pharoah. Like
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