Jazz Butcher Bath Of Bacon Rar Access

The neon sign above The Velvet Swine flickered, casting the alley in a sickly pink glow. Inside, the air was thick with three things: cigarette smoke, the wail of a broken soprano sax, and the distinct, artery-clogging perfume of frying pork.

“It’s… it’s terrible,” he whispered. “And I want more.”

Then, the rival arrived.