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Fred Ruskin sat by himself at a table in the back of the Peacock, the seediest bar that Carthage had to offer. Tonight he didn’t care who saw him drinking. The twang of Merle Haggard singing ‘Things Aren’t Funny Anymore’ drifted across the room from the old jukebox in the corner. ‘Ain’t that the truth,’ mumbled Ruskin, raising his glass in a silent toast to the music.