Fred found himself walking down a cracked and filthy sidewalk in the worst
section of town.
"Didn't even get paid for the few scenes they shot today," he sulked and kicked a flattened Budweiser can into the busy road, just missing an rusted-out El Camino sputtering by in the slow lane. The shopfronts Fred passed were an endless stream of tattoo parlours, strip bars, pool halls, pawn shops, and burned-out buildings. Each doorway emitted its own blend of foul odor: flat beer, old cigarette smoke, stale perspiration. Surprisingly, in the next block, was a brighly painted building with a freshly mown lawn. The sign said "Employment Agency." Fred walked right in. The lady behind the counter took one look at Fred. (Fred was still wearing the chainmail, sword, tunic, and varied acoutrements.) "There's a job just for you over at the mall," she said. "A..a...a shopping mall?" Fred gulped. "Why yes, the old mall on Salmonshire Blvd. You want the job?"
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7/13/2002 3:55:57 PM
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