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Sarge has a look on his face that makes his wrinkles seem like canyons. “Cut the crap, Magic,” he says with a ghost of a smile stuck to the corner of his lips.
With that on his face he looks twenty years and a barrel of sadness younger.
“Well, gee, you’re just no fun at all.” I lean on the door frame and cross my arms across my chest.
My stance will be ignored, but, hey, can’t blame a girl for trying to crawl back to bed and fall into blissful, alcohol induced sleep. We’ve got a shiner.” I raise my eyebrow-an expert achievement of snark that never fails to drive Sarge crazy.
I can still taste electric anise when I open my eyes.