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Jax

Nina’s talk with the old Japanese man is quick, quiet and furious, but when they’re done they both look happy.

“Essence of what?” asks Jax, back on the street.

“Kitsch,” Nina giggles, and sprinkles a few drops from the bottle on her shirt. It blooms an iron-on St. Pauli Girl.

Jax is awed. “Let me try!” He sprinkles his arms, sprouting dozens of bangle bracelets. He tries his shirt and gets Mister Rogers with a gun.

“You don’t need much–” Nina says, but Jax is splashing himself now. Shoes with wheels. Pink bows up his jean seams. Doc Holliday moustache.

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