“Hey Pops; how’s the wetha?” It was his sixth visit that day, and it was just about eleven.
Pops was reading a copy of the New York Times, and his trembling, vein-covered hands lowered the publication from view, “back again, Gabe?”
“Yea, I been blowin’ my guts out all the live long fuckin’ day. Hey Seuss, can I get a white mocha?”
“You want Latte
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