The bartender knew already that his twin would mean trouble. What with all the stealin' of the women and all the horkin' of his booze. It could not be. The next morning, after they spent a firelight out in the woods catching up, he put a round of buckshot in his back and drug his bones into a shallow grave. "We don't serve your kind here," he said with mist in his eyes and a squeak in his throat. Then he put the shovel in the backseat of his '53 El Dorado and tooled up the frontage road, with a song of regret playing in his ears.moreless
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