She could smell his fear like black piss river; like
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knotted balls of wors rolling in the smouldering
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ruins of an abbatoir. Like suicide in Menstrual Lake.
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Like the open graves of Hell. She could smell in as
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she gripped the knife and held it to his neck.
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She could smell his fear as cries for help grew
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wings and trickled neatly into garbage cans. As 16
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crippled hands fumbled with his zip. Twisted. Ate him
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slowly . . . kissed him quick. The scarlet ghosts would
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flinch--a glimpse of stocking! Shock the Red Night blue
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and clean away the mess cos Jack is dead. JACK
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IS DEAD!! (And nobody knew)
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-----------------
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The Death Of Jack The Ripper
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The Legendary Pink Dots |