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“Quit yappin’!” Price barked from his chair. His feet were propped up on his wooden desk, dirtied cowboy boots tapping irritably on the surface. His hands folded over his stomach and hat tilted down, shielding his eyes.
But you kept pacing your cell, going on and on about how you were innocent and it was a misunderstanding and *blah blah blah-* Marshal Price clearly couldn’t care less. “I *said,*” Price growled, slowly rising from his seat. “Shut your trap- before I *make* you.”
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