It's not every day a certain struggling artist opens the door to what she thinks is the illegal sublet she shares (with her best friend, another photogenic young artist) and ends up walking into some kind of bar (where said friend is nowhere to be found
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Murdock's sitting on a barstool, idly spinning himself around, and grinning.
"It does that."
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And then she shakes her head and refocuses.
"Does what?"
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"Oh, phooey."
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But sits on a stool just the same.
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"I can't turn you down there."
She lets go of the hand to start an idle spin of her own.
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And while her first instinct in a bar is to proceed to get hammered, it doesn't sound like too much fun without Dub-Dub around.
"Mmm. Maybe just a Hurricane to start."
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He nods at the waitrat. "Hurricane for the lady, a beer for me."
He doesn't really drink, but one won't kill him.
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She doesn't seem too bothered by this.
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This last is said rather as if the bar was some kind of person.
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