Jamie

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Dicky sucked air, and a boot slammed onto his neck. His watery eyes looked up. Standing overhead was the talker, whose bronzed brow and prickly beard dripped blood and sweat while he wheezed from the bullet the gambler had sent into his anatomy. His tangled black hair looked like leaking oil, and his obsidian eyes were unblinking and reptilian.
A Congregation of Jackals
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