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“Bueno,” I muttered and turned to go inside. When the runner came back the next day, I had my feet propped up on the counter and was busy scratching off old lottery tickets. It was boring as shit in that store, and lottery tickets were pretty damn interesting. Looking up, I half grinned at the guy. What emily'stoybox kind of lame idiot runs when it’s one hundred and ten degrees outside? His shirt clung all over as if to show me exactly emily'stoybox what kind of lame idiot runs when it’s hot out: the kind emily'stoybox of lame idiot who’s cut like a mother fucking knife. He drained the Gatorade as I rung him up. Catching his breath he asked, “How’s it going, bro?” Ha. This punk kept calling me bro. I thought about throwing him a hang loose sign and saying, Righteous, Dude! But what if he thought I was trying to be funny?
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