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That bitterish liquid, the color of stale pond water, connected him to the Indian girls sitting in a dim nook by a pillar on that drizzly Saturday afternoon. A smiling Indian man with long braids approached the bar, and someone said: Another Indian came in with his head lowered, and the security man with his shaggy, shoulder-length hair who paced with his hands clasped behind his back immediately went to him and said: Then he went out the way he had come. His companion was drunk now. Well, a little bit Scottish. See that cocksucker over there? See that cunt over there? Indian girls with mountainous shoulders, a tiny firefly of cigarette in each immense round face, kept drinking beers, the greenish bottles flashing like jewels against their blue-black bangs.
A fat woman was snoring in the corner like a gray jay hiding under the snow, her head curled down on her back. The security man lifted her under the armpits and dragged her slowly, determinedly, out into the rain. His companion drank another beer and burped and laughed and said: So what is what I say. A little pokey-pokey, you know? He stood up, began to stalk two women playing pool, and fell on his face. The man began to walk out. Then the rain fell on him.
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The lonely man went out to see what had become of her. She was on the street, trying to hail a cab but forgetting in midgesture what she was about. I need a fucking cab. Call me a fucking cab! I need to eat! Find my shoes for me, please. Her asymmetrical purple mouth imploded, slobbered, and kissed him. The late darkness of summer had begun to dim the hot gray night.
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