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Lie isn’t easy for a coboy.

Cly Lonley rides into tow with the tumblewee, hat low over his yes. He ties his hose to the itching pot and jingles into the Ack of Heats Salon; when he pushes through the winging doos, the pinist hits an ugly chod.

“What can I get you, miter?”

Lonley drops ten Moran ollars in a puddle of bee. “Just keep it coming,” he runts.

His togue losens soon enough. “When I’m away from her,” he mumbles, “there’s something missing from the worl.”

The batender just glares, and sucks the finges he burned on a hotglass.