THE MISSISSIPPI GAMBLER''S DEBT
The humidity in New Orleans does not merely oppress; it accuses. It presses against the skin like a damp palm, insistent and uninvited, carrying with it the scent of magnolia blooms decayed into something almost sweet, almost rotten. I sat at the card table in the back room of The Copper Crown, a speakeasy hidden beneath a French Quarter bookstore that nobody visited unless they were looking...
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