M (also known as Dr. T, a thousand praises unto him) grunts a low guttural in his sleep. As he sweats in the dark heat, he curses the unseen enemy. He does not dare open the window, though the sweet fragrance of death tempts. The reaper will have to wait.
M scratches himself behind the ear, and sinks back into sleep.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
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