We’ll break bread and speak of many things—oxen and oil-tankers and whether or not Frank Sinatra really was a better crooner than Der Bingle. Mounted behind the bar, which ran the length of the room, was a monstrous trophy: a two-headed elk with a rack of antlers like a forest grove and four glaring eyes. “Took my lovely glam, that’s what those bad boys did. Most of the works were housed in rusty metal blocks, but he could see a gigantic turning shaft of some kind, gleaming with oil that must be supplied by automated jets.
Never in her life had there been a night like this. The man with the long white hair took a glass of punch, passed it to his female companion, and continued to smile thinly. ”“A drink of what?” she asked, a trifle roguishly. but the second time, he had.
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