The Sate of Bandelier


"Ugo."
Ugo, sprawled in the gutter, flinched. A rent in his purple lips split, oozed as he moaned through red-cored stumps of freshly-broken teeth. He covered his face with cut-hatched hands, curled deeper into the bed of dead leaves and musky horseshit.

"Ugo," said the voice again, strong, insistent. A hand shook his shoulder. "Vamos. Come now."

"Go away."
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Benton

Chief Producer of Typos at Incunabuli.com.

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