Fuck that. The fisherman’s pocketknife falls out of my pocket on the floor, but I retrieve it with ease and effort, plucking up the sharpest mini-ra...or, leaning the skull of the living dead to the side and nailing the knife through to the other side. The gagging stops. The dead body, the sloth himself, is exterminated. I stand up, no blood on my shirt but a good lot on my pants legs. Zelda’s eyes, those sea blue eyes, are gazed on the not is but was on the cols footing. I grab her arm and pull. The arrival at a small Eskimo village in early August of 1825 of 3,000 cockatiels and one buffoon was a matter of note to every single person including the women and children. Fred repeated to anyone at the Yuno bar who was stuck for a place to drink beer that Alaska was not so dull as he had expected. Since this was the only saloon in town, fellow patrons here tolerated him and regarded him just had his former companions. They drank and ignored him. But he had great plans. Fred had not wasted. More

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