Hank Bankton talked wildly into his Bluetooth as he chewed his hot wings with mouth wide open. “Push those bitches out of our market, like I said at the.” He stopped and began to froth. A hair was coiled in his basket of hot wings.
Brandishing the near-empty basket as he thrust himself into the kitchen, he was greeted by the sight of a barefoot guru sautéing onions while sitting in full lotus on a stool. The floor was dirt. The air was spicy. Unprepared for such sagacious and third-world preparation of food, he silently stepped back into the lounge.
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