(TWENTY-THREE) The Stink of a Nine-Fingered Asshole
Fantasmagoria
Jack struggled against the straps. “Why do I have to be tied down?”
The skinshear, Elsa, looked up through her magnifying glasses. She was gray-haired with a pert nose and wizened eyes. “So you stay still.”
“I’m not sur--”
“Bah,” Vernal scoffed. “Have you seen what you look like? The Hand knows we’re here for sure, what with all the stares you got. You loo…
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