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The Triple M


It’s been a notably hot and personally eventful Labor Day weekend in Los Angeles. Bryan, Naylor, and Jace have hooked up in Hermosa Beach on the weekend’s final Monday evening for some sushi, dry Japanese beer, and some catch-up brotherly conversation. They’ve grabbed a table.

Naylor, familiar with the restaurant, passes the menu to Jace.

NAYLOR: All you can eat. Pick anything from here. Twenty-one ninety-five.

JACE: I really ain’t that hungry. I just want a couple appetizers.

Naylor points to the menu.

NAYLOR: It includes anything here. Appetizers too.

Jace examines the menu, reading out loud.

JACE: Crunchy spicy tuna roll. Mixed tempura. We can even get beef teriyaki?

Naylor nods.

NAYLOR: Anything off that menu.

JACE: That’ll work. I’m down.

Bryan’s been quietly observing two weightlifters a couple tables away. Both are evidently either on their way to or coming home home from the gym, sporting spandex pants and tight sleeveless T-shirts revealing horrifyingly obvious artificially manufactured muscled arms.

Bryan shakes his head, motioning to the two weightlifters.

BRYAN: So somebody explain the story behind that major mental malfunction.

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