Clark Renault pushed four shopping carts, drooping handlebar mustache and vacant eyes making him look like a channel cat who lived in a stream used exclusively for meth lab runoff.
The mustache, two oily protrusions starting where his nostrils ended, seemed to be more for nervous fiddling than they were a fashion statement.
To the best of anyone’s knowledge, Clark didn’t do meth.
Dorvest Pointe was more of a pill town, and not a horrible one as cloudy little light industrial communities went.
Almost no one knew this, but Clark’s drug of choice was wiping a mix of tequila and amyl nitrate on his gums.
He mixed it himself, in his little attic apartment above Twain Funeral Home.
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