Just off a frantic Buenos Aires street was a small avenue no one ever noticed. It was the dog days of summer and heat was rising up from the asphalt. Along the avenue was a café where a reindeer named Rudolph sat alone at a corner table. A straw fedora was pulled low and obscured his face. He was sipping a mojito. The day’s edition of La Nación was folded across his lap.
On the table was a can of Barbasol shaving cream. No one seemed to think that was odd.
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