“How are ya, buddy? Good job at the concert. " "You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger. Not a word passed between them. She went about the gory business of disposing of the bodies, cutting them up with a large butcher knife and packing the light dry pieces of their bloodless remains in a double ply garbage bag, pieces that looked like overcooked, ruined meat. She paused. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. ” “Don’t say that,” Sydney begged. This species of madness cannot properly be attributed to his illness, though its accent might be.
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