He swept into the room like a tornado touching down in a library, his sudden presence disrupting what had been an otherwise quiet conversation in the burned out shell of an apartment Bonnie called home these days. All black leather and drama, the heels of his dark boots clacking the floor, white teeth flashing in contrast, the biggest goddamn gun I’d ever seen in one hand and a plastic bag filled with yellow capsules in the other. “Tamer of the beast,” he said, waving the gun at me like a bit-player in an old western. “And enough speed to wake the fucking dead.”
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