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All the chocolate milk in this place is expired

This is an evil place. Built on the graves of the innocent, and the not so innocent. In the men’s room, a woman is crying in the handicap stall. I wash my hands, pretend I don’t hear her. I stumble back to the bar, pretend I remember where it is. Weaving through the noisy slot machines taking money from the chain-smoking machines, through the empty tables with smiling dealers. Earlier, I was something like happy. Earlier, I was something like human. Now I’m sitting in a dark corner hoping the cameras can’t find me, hoping all this fades into a forgotten memory. But there is always evidence. There are always consequences.