Somewhere within the bloated body of a certain Frank DeTorre

City of Frank: The Ingrown Toenail - 4:00 PM

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Thrax rests himself against a long table in the center of the room, drumming pointed finger-tips against its surface, he hums a low tune under his breath…

One digit shoots out and flicks away a spare pollen bud-- coiled like a spring, the pollen puffs up before drifting off into some corner of the ran-down Adrenaline Station.