By Jim Gramze
Sammy Slick walks into the interrogation room and a heavy steel door clacks shut behind him with the finality of a very expensive and capable locking mechanism. Ben Braun is seated wearing abnormally large shackles, the silver-colored metal glowing with that never-been-used oily sheen. Ben is slumping forward, an ok build for a teenager, looking forlornly at the metal tabletop before him. As Ben looks up at Sammy his posture straightens and his facial expression firms up into that of confident hope with a glisten in his eyes.
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