act one chapter seven
The cart didn’t have a name, but a permanent stain of vegetable lard on the cement and the hoof-traffic worn pavement in front demarcated the zone between Flying Iron’s territory and the gangs. They respected him because he fed them - and because if you fought, screwed, or dealt near his stand or the nearby picnic tables, you quickly learned about an extension of his special talent; specifically that he could hit a pony upside the head at fifty paces with a pot of boiling grease. Never a pretty sight.
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