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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.

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