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The Artist and Old Shit Eyes

Arthur showered on the night of his big opening. He trimmed his beard with a kitchen scissors and put on a clean collared shirt. He didn’t have a decent pair of dress slacks, unfortunately, as it was summertime and he’d already cut all his long pants off above the knees in the name of better breathability. The top half of a pair of gray cords would have to do. He took his mug of strong, black coffee - brewed with beans he got special from an old tweaker friend of his - and stepped out back by the water. Arthur lived in a trailer on the banks of the Napawaupee River, which girthwise was really more like a creek. The river swelled rather impressively in the spring, however, and considering the

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