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♪ Currently playing ♪: Julius Fucik’s Entry Of The Gladiators.

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Presently, I’ve got my barrel poked through a crack in the monorail nest’s window resting, aim traced on Reptile Skin, who’s been trudging through hip-high mud in the crackodile swamps.      It keeps getting higher, and he’s starting to panic now.

 

When he came upon what remained of Shark Teeth – in all his contorted crispiness – he bolted for the west gate.

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Reptile pigmentation tablets are a thrifty substitute for semi-serviceable armor in the Scorch. They gnarl the skin into hideous knots, scabbing into a nearly impenetrable patch but only for a few hours.

 

When it wears off, the skin is twice as vulnerable so it’s definitely a trade-off.

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This poor scabber’s purchase wore off about ten minutes ago, and even from miles off I can see him wincing pronouncedly, as the bogthorns lash and scrape at his exposed arms.     He’s slowing, the fatigue weighing him down, legs going leaden. I can see those albino bumps in the water beginning to circle, too.

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He’ll be dead by the time the moon crests

and Merrymouseland will be safe once more.

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Pure, at least for a spell, until the next clueless

encroachers step foot on my domain and it’s time to go to work again.

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I pull my barrel out of the window slit to let nature take its course.

 

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There was a time when I would’ve donated a

bullet to him to spare him the indignity of being eaten alive.

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That time is known as ancient history.

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