The (Almost) True Story of Tuscl
In the winter of 1993, Dave Jackson (not my real name) was thirty-two, newly divorced, and freshly unemployed, sitting in the half-empty parking lot of the Pink Pony on Buford Highway with divorce papers still warm in the glovebox. The club’s neon bled pink across the windshield while he nursed a vodka he couldn’t taste. A dancer named Cinnamon asked…
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