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...
Not in a fantasy world. Not with the lingering taste of tax magic still clinging to my soul like emotional mildew.
My eyes fluttered open. I was tied to a post.
In a circle.
Of villagers.
Wearing robes.
And chanting.
"Oh come the chosen sponge, bearer of glow, let him suffer that we may flow!"
"What the actual fuck," I whispered.
A goat screamed.
Not baa’d. Screamed. Like it saw a bill it couldn’t pay.
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