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Evisceration: A Narrative Fiction

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“Don’t bother with the passport. It’s fake.” He doesn’t check, just smiles smugly. He’s too young, too eager: immaculate suit, shirt, tie; cute haircut; sharp eyes; perfect muscles. That has to be his first body, top of the range, very expensive. Me, I’m down to cast-offs. This flabby thing stinks, but it’s all I’ve got left. That, two hundred years of experience, and a hidden blade. “Ok, old ma—” Evisceration. The best way to interrupt a man, or fleshwalker. As I leave he’s trying to shove his guts back in, blabbing about how much that ruined meat cost

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