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Tank the Bouncer: Part 12

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Part 12

The next morning I get on my computer and read over Twitter and Facebook. As I peruse the headlines, I see some posts about another mysterious vandalization of Franklin’s down the street, another bar about 4 blocks from here. I click on the link and the pictures make me gasp. The booths are ripped out of the walls, ventilation ducts up by the ceiling torn down, broken glass, brick, and wood everywhere. The front wall has a huge hole in it and, just like at the first bar, it looks like it caved in from the outside, like something smashed through with a battering ram. But I know it wasn’t a battering ram.

I rush downstairs and out the back. Tank is snoring deeply on the makeshift bed, his naked form vast and intimidating, swelling with muscle with each breath. I approach him and shake his huge shoulder.

“Tank! Tank! Get up! What did you do last night!?” I say as I shake him. He grunts and rolls over, nearly pinning me as he slowly wakes.

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