•
The bar was dark, thick with smoke. About her, losers and loners, bent over their drinks. Old music played, but nothing too obnoxious—ancient shit from the twentieth century, some moron’s idea of cool, black plastic key- board dance crap—but really, nothing too bad, nothing too loud. And up until five seconds ago the bar had been fine, the place had been a balm, a cloak, a fucking bomb shelter. But now…
• • •
THE NEW INSTALLMENT IS UP FOR YOUR READING PLEASURE. And despite what “Sir Hugo” might have to say about it, there are actually one or two decent bits to be found within. And the hell with Hugo; he hasn’t been the same since what we in the family refer to as the “accident.” So go. Go and get it, war doggy.
Ω
Exit Vector runs weekly at UNDERLAND PRESS
