Juan Fish imperium, all dialogue verbatim:

Just now, walking down E 7th Street on my way to tiny little cramped old world east village public library (two stories of wrought-iron stacks in a narrow tenement building) where I am now sitting, I passed two aging British hipsters talking and couldn’t help but hear one (50-ish, long graying hair, beard, earrings, tweed cap) saying. “Juan Fish, F-I-S-H, it says on both sides of the door, it would be a crime to paint over that.”
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juan-fish-truck[1]

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