Egg shell tap dance. Sleeping shepherd. Razor teeth. Ugh. Plier for the toothache. Begging for that final push. Creature feature spines. Fetus eater dines. His eyes hide a parking meter mind. Whistles through gristle his pearly whites grind. Rain or shine, no matter, he blends in seamlessly. Chewing on tumors. Suitor looter savors the fruits of his evening spree. Chimney and hearth reek of damp ash. Days sneak past. Stores appendages in the freezer to make the taste last. Brusquely halted the dialogue. Wrung water from dripping aqua dog. Spotter glare equipping a feeling of grace for when they're dying off. That marrow air triggers deja vu, the same goes for you. The proof is in the pudding that's withheld till you finish your meat and obey rules.

That moment when you splinter. When octagon is named the winner. That instant cognition broke the surface. Explosion imminent now the crumbling corridor is perfect. When the manilla figure is thinner. When salty looks are what's for dinner. Spat cryptic minions. Uncloak the circus. Implosion ignorant of the fact it's very form is still in service.

Elusive clues. Truer than finicky ripley moves. Scoot or choose. No more luke warm persona non grata ruse, no one's amused. And if Harold Davis wasn't anywhere to be seen, what's that say about the mean? Suddenly scaled fiends aren't so keen. Lead their wandering eye in figure eights, assimilate to the trajectory their inward scissors take. Fissure beneath the lake. I mean, if the subject matter in question is the half-life of the magma, I think it's long enough to dispossess your vessel of it's plasma. Weasel conquistador. Feasting on beasts and slaver whores. Wishing for the next heavy bombardment of the eastern shore. Waodani repulsion in my gut. Ulcers throbbing in the front. And he's pulling up 21st century infamous wire rigged stunts. Fucking chase scene stumble. Perfect collapse of all the rubble. Shitty shot henchmen. Bulletproof subterfuge. And if he got pinched then there's no struggle till the others lose.