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Marcella's Fantasy House Nights at this place he drank beer after beer. His gut rolled like a melon on the felt. He said he could beat any of us and mostly he was right. He played us for quarters so he could feed his thing for Hank and Willie on the one juke box. Paydays he wanted his winnings in shots, so he could get drunk enough to visit this redhead dancer at the stage. He put nearly all his pay between her breasts, then he kissed the bruised air, because he knew, like we did, that was all of her he was going to have. Then he sat by himself on a stool and punched the air, a round against the guy who stole his old lady in Tuscaloosa, one against the foreman we hated at the plant. Against the no new love and the no new luck and every night nothing he hadn't seen before.
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