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she smelled like violence and rainy nights.

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he examined his arm with a stupid sort of wonder. a buck and a half Pensy jackknife was growing out of it like a strange tumor.

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he smiled a little. it was a sick smile, but better than none.

themed rerun #19

the steel, asbestos-jacketed pressing cylinders had been as red as barn paint, and the rising steam from the machine had carried the sickening stench of hot blood.

sleep wouldn’t come. when it did, it brought dreams that were like neatly edited segments of memory.

the man opened his mouth to speak. a small trout swam out, trailing impossible bubbles.

themed rerun #18

a tangible wave of longing hit him, lust and loneliness riding in on the wavelength of amphetamine.

a simulated airburst drowning the arcade in white sound as a lurid hologram fireball mushroomed overhead.

with a barely audible click, ten double-edged, four-centimeter scalpel blades slid from their housings beneath the burgundy nails.

he willed himself into passivity, became the passenger behind her eyes.

as she began to lower herself, the images came pulsing back, the faces, fragments of neon arriving and receding.

'it's too bad she won't live, but then again, who does?'

'that gum you like is going to come back in style'


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