Hank Dutch leans against the wall, red bandana tight around his neck, muscles flexing as he holds a beige cloth just above his asshole. The fabric shifts with each deliberate pose, his dark hair framing a body marked by tattoos as he strips down, first the shirt, then the last barrier. Seated on a surface, he arranges the cloth again, fingers tracing the edge before letting it fall away completely. Every movement is measured, the cloth his only companion until it, too, disappears.
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