"I was guilty of nearly everything I detested about the man who defaced my dollar, except his jacket—leather, shiny silver spikes sprouting here and there. Go home little punk. But I had come to the bar penless that night, completely unprepared for the writer battle about to go down all over George Washington's face.
I rubbed the tips of my thumb, index and middle finger together, warming them up for the quick snatch and write I would have to execute as soon as I looked down at the dollar. I contemplated throwing out an American sentence, an Allen Ginsberg poetic form I had spent the day studying. Take that you uneducated barroom writer fighter. I've got the Gins.
He pulled his hand away. I leaned in, looked down."
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