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The mask is pinned to the back of the bar by a single nail. Without a head to fill it, it sags down, mouth and eyes creating long, empty ovals. The whole thing calls to mind the velvet picture of sad clowns sold on the street markets to people with no taste. The start of a headache builds in the back of my head as I stare at the decoration, like the scratching a dog makes on a door when they’re desperate to get out. I reach into my pocket for the bottle of aspirin I keep with me, but