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Skrill woke up in sweat-caked agony thinking only thoughtsof things he hadn't done and it was a parade and it had clownsand they mocked him with their bright red lipstick and faces thecolor of greasy death covered in beads of sweat. He ate abreakfast but it wasn't breaking anything and laughed at theroom around him, white and deadly, and it laughed back; thoughhe supposed it only a trick of his vivid imagination. Laughs arethe devil's concubines his mother liked to say but it didn'tsound so much like fucking as it did a scream. He hated thehands he'd made for himself. He looked at them and hated them,then turned them over and hated the backs too. Hands weren'tsupposed to be like this and he didn't know where he'd fucked itall up but he supposed it started as a kid and it started whenhe used to touch himself. All the time and his hands wouldsqueeze and turn into hairy wrinkled monstrosities and hismother always warned him. Skrill nodded at the cuckoo clock andslapped himself with his deformed hands. Like always, he hatedmorning and coffee didn't help like it used to. He crawled outof his clothes and into a street where his mother had broughthim for jobs and such. He slithered down the street and foundthat people were rocks that he could shimmy his way through andthat the ground was a big track of sand for him to leave histracks. Everyone stared at his hands. They were balloons,sausages pinned to steaks--and not the little ones mind you but
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