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Arthur Pendragon's The Black Hole

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The overhead florescent light flickered, casting a vomit-yellow pall over the seedy Washington, DC bar. The bar was called The Black Hole, but Arthur Pendragon thought a more fitting would be The Shithole. It was the kind of place where your feet stuck to the floor and the whiskey tasted like battery acid. They probably hadn’t washed their glasses since the Clinton administration, because each piece was covered in fingerprints; some even had lipstick smears on the rim.
But who the fuck cared? People came here to get shitfaced and forget, exactly what Arthur was looking for. He’d been coming to his bar for the past week after work because the rot-gut whiskey was cheap, did the job (got him drunk), and no one ever so much as glanced at him.

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