The toned shoulders of the professional time-waster rippling beneath the bomber jacket of the fashion insensible, stocky legs in camouflage pants and para-but-never-quite-cut-it-militarily boots, the dull polished visage of the partially unconscious beneath a sharp haircut. Gary stood near the mirrored windows of a shoe store waiting for his lady, and muttered, “Fuck… I’m hot.”

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