The Custom Identity
The rain hit the sidewalk outside my shop like handfuls of gravel thrown by an angry god. I was wiping down the pressing board when the bell above the door rang. Three men walked in. That was the first problem. Men don't come in threes. They come in ones. Or twos, if they're friends. Three means business, and business in my line of work means someone is about to lose everything. The first man...
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