Poor Candidate
By LilDean. The whiskey in my glass catches the light from the hotel room’s bedside lamp, swirling amber like slow-moving traffic on Fifth Avenue. I don’t even like whiskey—prefer a crisp lager, really—but it feels like what a man who might be mayor should drink. The ice has melted into submission, diluting the burn just enough to pretend I enjoy it. “Tell me again,” I say, not looking up from my phone where the latest poll numbers glare
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