[There were days Schuldig really, really wanted to kill someone. Mainly Crawford for putting him into situations like this where he was stuck in the middle of fuck-knows-where without anything to do. At least the club he'd found had some potential--the alcohol was decent, the music wasn't horrible, and the crowd offered a few interesting choices. The key was finding just the right one.
Or the first of several.
As it was, he sat at the bar eyes glancing between the crowd and the door trying to make up his mind.]
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Or the first of several.
As it was, he sat at the bar eyes glancing between the crowd and the door trying to make up his mind.]