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Tuesday 200 - #53

She was limping up the street, weeping. We see that a lot around here — middle-aged women having a bit of a cry, dark roots sprouting up through bad bleach jobs.

Willie sighed and reached into his shirt pocket.

“Don’t,” I said, two seconds too late. Bongs for breakfast always trumped any good sense he might have woken up with.

“I’m a trained professional,” he assured her, handing her a card from his salon, Curl Up and Dye. “I can help.”

These poor ladies, teetering back from central lockup, where they’d left their sons and husbands. They couldn’t afford to post bail, let alone a double-process.

“Two hours ago, I had a gun to my head,” she said.

“Okay, then,” Willie chirped. “Step away from the Law & Order extra.”

“Sorry about my friend, ma’am. You want a coffee or something?” There was a cafe just around the corner, and she looked harmless.

She took a cigarette from behind her ear and reached into her purse. “I thought it’d get better,” she smiled, pulling out her lighter. “Guess not.”

Her bleached head exploded into a pulpy mist as she crumpled into the sidewalk, the gun wrapped in her bony hand.

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