The Golden Farce
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for the Mentally Ill was a cavernous expanse of peeling gold leaf and rotting velvet, a place where the air hung heavy with the scent of boiled cabbage, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of old blood, and there, seated at the head of a long table that seemed to stretch into the infinite dark of the corridor, sat Elias Thorne, a man whose...
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