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Chili John

The chimpfall in Puebla is like dew, not rain: around four a.m. they start to accrete on awnings and car roofs, anything flat that stays cool. But they don’t evaporate in the sun.

“They just sit in the street,” grumbles the chief, “not like we need streets in the morning, and eventually they move off some random way. To make room for the next ones! I’d blow their monkey brains out–”
“But they’re endangered,” Chili John nods.

“I’m ’bout to endanger ’em. I don’t know what you’re planning, stranger, but…”

“Can’t fight spontaneous generation, Chief,” grins Chili John, “without a degenerate.”

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