The city is silent. The streets are empty. As a grizzled gay ghoul sits alone in a dimly-lit apartment, his belly warmed from a 12-year-old Scotch, he looks down at his crotch. It might be the booze or that ill-advised 2am bean burrito, but his little friend down south begins speaking. He strains his ears to hear what the little guy is saying: "Come closer. Put on some headphones. Henceforth, you will be known as DJ Crypto Meth."
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