In a New Orleans hotel suite sat an unkempt man, his flesh folding in rolls above his belt. He sipped contentedly from a jar of pure honey, bestirring himself now and then to waddle across the room, or to scratch himself, or to snap his suspenders, while the returns from the Democratic primary election for governor dinned into his ears: "Long 112,261 . . . Morrison 87,128 . . . Preaus 25,948 . . . Grevemberg 16,863 McLemore 18,227." "Looks good," he croaked. "It's in the bag."
As the evening wore on, it...
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