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16 El Grito Sunday again, in the back of a van, behind El Siete Mares, the voice yawned before climbing into her suit of lights, her pressed bolero, buttons bowed before the horn arrived, glassy from last night, and then el requinto with a dirty rosette, strapless but fine-tuned, the violin spat and adjusted her girdle, primped her bow in rosin, shit-talkin’ those who ran late, until el guitarrón, breathing heavily from behind his tonsils, crammed himself into the van, shut all doors, and sent around a broken clarinet reed, loaded with coke. ...

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