The Pale Bonsai
The rain in Chicago does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, harder to grip, easier to slip on. You know this because you are standing on the wet pavement of the Wicker Park alley, your tactical vest soaked through, the weight of your sidearm feeling less like a tool and more like a dead fish in your hand. You are looking for the bonsai. Not the metaphorical kind. The...
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