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one-hundred-fifty-seven-word story

The buzz of the industrial lights overhead filled the otherwise nearly empty warehouse. Francisco approached a large wooden crate set off to one side. It had already been pried open and emptied.

Francisco wasn’t sure why he had come. He rarely met with his clients. And when he did, he always met on his terms. This was a new client, and it wasn’t even going to be a big contract. He should have declined.

As the lights grew brighter and the intermittent flickering began to pass, Francisco remembered how much he hated the sickly colour fluorescent lights gave his tanned skin. A cockroach scurried from underneath the crate into the light. Francisco watched it run a few metres before he got annoyed and crushed it under his boot.

Francisco checked his watch. The client would be there in eight minutes. He could still back out.

Made it this far, might as well see it through, he reasoned.

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