"It was one warm July night—rather, morning—about five a.m. in one of them newfangled swingers apartment buildings uptown midtown. Harvy Jones had moved there due to the persistent urgings of his wife, Vikki, who wanted to live the glamorous and stylish life she imagined all young swinging couples lived—the best of everything, food, cars, bad pads, furs, rings and things, etc."
Ten bucks says this ends badly.
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