The air is thick with the threat of rain. Shadows wander the streets in the auspices of a vagabond sunrise. The baker’s ritual clogs the alleys with olfactory rolls and damper scones. A depression in the street has become a burrowed slice of haven, clouded with refused takings and the leavings of scavengers. In the last dead end, Junk Struck Larry lay his head, his lip curled in imitation of his body, a freshly milled pout made with an old recipe. A discard ragged wraith haunting a stolen castle, lain in a bed built of goodwill and bad intentions.

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