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Wasteland Tales #25

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“Curfew!” The barman rattles his heavy bell. “Finish up and fuck off!”
Grumbling through clouds of smoke and stale air, his customers shuffle out. Except-
The man hasn't moved. He isn't old but the wastes had made him so, tanning his skin, bleaching his hair.
“Curfew, buddy. You deaf?”
“Another,” slurs the man. His shoulders move just enough to add the two revolvers on his belt to the request.
“Can’t do it. Curfew.”
The gunman sighs, rolling back his sleeve. The hunter’s mark shines in the gloomy bar.
The barman hands him a full bottle.
“Now fuck off,” he says.

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