Vulture Chic Among Fiends

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

"Ah that's a real nice boon there, a standout miracle of blessings that any priest-liar's tongue would envy. Many thanks for this warmth, my fiend, that you've bestowed upon me in drink-form. She is a real beauty that touches me loving-like, a whisper that Karissa Blake's me lips, makes sweat bead along the open bed of me mouth, a real gullet slider, if you take my meaning. She's the kind of intimate that really lights the old stomach furnace like a dram of that good oil plussed up by the steady hand of a master lighter. Where did the chops stop again?

"Righto. So it's me, Sticky Dan, and Old Nod, one of me strongest, spinny cogs. None of us partialed to march as streetsweepers, with feigned concern with public nuisances and the like, but if either of these 'barians fell bloody and unmoving onto the cold face of the streetsweeper's tear-stained domain, well the corpse and the details of said corpsification might be worth some small coin for me and mine. So eyes on flashing steel, we waited for one to fall."


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