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Petros

Petros doesn’t smoke or drink. He avoids caffeine and excessive sugar, and the only herbs he consumes are from his kitchen window garden. He doesn’t drop, roll, shoot, buzz, pop or snort. He doesn’t take aspirin.

Yet Petros is an addict. He’s addicted to catfish: fat, ugly Tennessee catfish, served on wax paper in an enormous basket; catfish with all the trimmings: corn pone hush puppies, sweet pickle tartar sauce, fries cut so thick they’re still cold in the middle and cole slaw so deep in diesel mayonnaise it’d make the devil sweat.

Someday, catfish will kill him. Petros won’t mind.

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