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Gonna drive like hell through your neighborhood
Park this silverado on your front lawn
Crank up the Hank, sit on the hood and drink
I'm about to get my pissed off on.
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Fog swarmed around his ankles as he stalked down the sidewalk, a fine mist falling on the seasoned leather of his jacket. The scent of autumn was almost cloying in the crispness of the air, despite being early September. While most people enjoyed the change of seasons, Ruger loathed it. The cold was just another hindrance to him, making his job that much harder. Unlike those he hunted, he was human and vulnerable to plummeting temperatures. Being southern born and bred didn't help much, either. The heat of Arkansas had a way of thinning the blood.
Ruger slipped into the club, put of the swirling fog and into the neon glow and warmth. His deep blue gaze shifted over the establishment with calculated precision, marking every exit and possible weapon to memory. He made his way slowly to the bar, settling on a stool. He unzipped his jacket and shook off the excess moisture collected on its surface. He set his cigarettes on the bar, then lifted his gaze to the bartender. He voiced his his order--whiskey on the rocks--in his usual quiet and husky way. He watched as the drink was poured and nodded a thanks, before turning his attention to the amber liquid in front of him.
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