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Dixieland + Manu
Steel wool, that's all there was, just mounds upon mounds of steel wool. It's use had become apocryphal in this era of saline and other, far finer chemicals, each equally equipped to erase the bone and the marrow of those against you. Be they merely machinations of an active mind, or apparitions rightly divined from an erupting ether that binds its spiny fingers around the nervous system.
I heed what Manu has done, confined inside his crystalline palace of din, id, and drained bits of debauchery. He'd created a catacomb of endless LED screens, ensconcing his leathery form inside a chrysalis of cat-5s, categorizing every move of his dreamt demons, those et al organisms, sinful and apportioned venom.
It takes the creation of an application, one which streams various forms of electronic pulsations, diluted into genre classifications, and writ through endless lines of pristine computer code, so as to generate a suitable settlement of currency with which to bring about the requisite end of such a vile and calculating foe -- one who calls himself "Manu".
I pray that this hero continues his quest, for the eradication of this terrible blight.
I want to fuck Amber.
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