Henry Huffins sat hunched over like an inmate at a lunch table; manipulating the baby blue envelope with one hand while tapping with the other. His mind wandered as he began reading all the graffiti etched into the bar directly below his aching head. Most of it, as expected, was poorly spelled fowl language or hasty professions of “LOVE” drunkenly
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Hahahaha!
A dead possum 'prize' is lousy prize, and yet it definitely fits in a universe with a subway station whose tracks feature, among other things, "half a rat." Urk.
Kudos for slipping that "H.R. Huffinstuff" quip in there, though now you've earwormed me...:O
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