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the bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war
[ *  *  *  *  *  * ]
Oskar reached backwards with his free hand, dug the weight from the base of his spine, and pulled the little pistol out, pointed it at Jane.

"You're not," he said, and, following the moonlit page instructions, flicked the safety off with his thumb.

His shield was down, now, the deft motion of the safety flicking off reminiscent of the daisy chains he'd crafted so carefully, fighting down panic. His mouth was a serious line, his open palm cupped under his hand - his gun hand - steadying the quake that threatened to betray him.

"Give it to me."
A list of the dying, a list of the damned.

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I've Got No Strings · Crematorium Gardens