The Roaring Liquidation
The bass line thrummed through the floorboards of The Gilded Cage, vibrating up through the soles of Jack Morrison's shoes and into his bones. Above him, the ceiling was painted with stars that flickered in time with the jazz band's frantic energy. Somewhere in the darkness above, a saxophone wailed like a dying man. Jack sat at a corner table, a glass of bootleg whiskey in front of him. He had...
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