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The Leather Hand of Bleak Fate

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The sun massages me as I wallow in my muddy pen.
A fresh smell of leftovers wafts through the air.
Massive gobs of spit flow from my mouth as I breathe in the delectable aroma.
As I indulge in my hedonism, a choir of terrified squeals thunders harmoniously.

“What’s going on?” I squeal in terror.

“Man is here,” my friend screams.

A leather boot slams down and a gloved hand grabs me by the scruff.
I jerk like a caught fish on a pole.

The leather hand of my bleak fate tosses me like an old brown shoe in the back of a truck as bleak as the catacombs of Hell.



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