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Garbage Man Meets Garbage Bag Lady Continues...

It happened at Rump's Bar one Friday night...

Poor dame was a hot, sweaty mess, like she's trying to make weight. I’d rung her bell, but she’d already lost the fight. Nerves even spilled her drink.

Glad she dressed in low-density polyethylene.

Snort. Chortle. Fart.

She leered, like a jet.

I bellowed, “Barkeep! A mop, if you please!” realizing I’d slipped in her saintly puddle of sin.

“Names are inconsequential,” I hushed then burped, sliding over things Rump found to pass off as nuts.

“I said, Nice, as in France, not… “

I then noticed her dirty cocktail glass had been dusted for prints.

Things had gotten dangerous.

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