We were just about to see if it would fit! Cason offers a feeble nod, hands over the car—and there, as E. But no. Holds it up and stares at it, lip in a sneer, brow in a quizzical knit—as if turning it one way makes it junk, and turning it the other way makes it art.
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He shakes the bag, and what emanates sounds like metal chips or stone pieces rattling together. Then the man-who-is-most-certainly-not-a-man turns and goes back inside, carrying both the RC car and the bag that was attached to it. And when he leaves it feels like a bag has been put back over your head, like cataracts have been thumb-pressed upon your eyes. The woman laughs.
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Then cries out in some measure of pleasure that turns to pain—and then back to pleasure again. He pushes through it. Staggering, dizzy, into E.
He shines it back and forth, a lighthouse beacon in the mist. His hands are steepled over his cock and a low gurgle comes from the back of his throat. Blood runs to the floor in little black rivulets, pooling under his asscheeks. The woman sits nearby. Also naked. Pert little wine glass breasts defying gravity, pointing up.
The nipples gleam. Not from shards of metal but from alligator clamps chomping down on the nubbins. Her head is wobbly; it tilts uncertain upon her neck, gazing up at Cason. Her mouth is a muddy lipstick streak from lips to ears: a clownish grin. She points with trembling finger, and Cason moves through the room. Past an overturned chaise.
Over a dead lamp. Hip-bumping a leather horse. Forcing those words out is like making yourself puke. But just like puking, it feels better having let loose. Cason stands there. He knows he should help.
Should reach out and scoop up his boss—and just the thought of that makes his heart flutter in his chest, that uninvited thrill of the promise of skin on skin. But then whatever Cason was going to say or do no longer matters. A gassy hiss from the back of his throat—a hiss that brings words, words that are not English but some foreign, even alien tongue. Then: an abrupt punch of air, a thunderclap of wind.
He feels lighter—empty, somehow, a pitted fruit gnawed from the inside. Feelings of shame and guilt war with a woozy, drunken bliss: the feelings of waking up after a one night stand magnified by a hundred, by a thousand. Rents in flesh. Skin pulled from skin. Bloating then falling—from the open, bloodless wounds, a puff of feathers, both white and gold.
Rising on the expulsions of air, then drifting back to the ground. Two wails rise nearby: the man and the woman, these most recent sexual conquests of E. Rose, sobbing into their hands, pulling at their hair with bloody fingers. Fitz is one of the problems. Also, maybe their salvation. Not that FItz wants any part of any of it. He has some help — though, if given the option, they might not be his first choice. Might not be his seventh or eighth either, but they have their uses. The metal stairs shake from the battle, the sound of gunfire echoing through the enclosed space.
They manifest based on the thing they represent. But the grasping hands weighing the Agents down? The shrieking noise? I mentioned the dark humor, right? For anyone who likes their urban fantasy with a dash of wit, who like their noir with a dose of mythology, who like fast-paced hijinks and lunacy.
ductpodpafisre.tk See more new releases at our Fresh Meat feature page. For starters this is clearly a Chuck Wendig book. The dialogue is short and snappy and characters bounce snark off each other while at the same time Wendig gives all his heroes and even some villains some added depth. Over the story we invest ourselves in this man who while not academic is clearly smart and driven. In fact, he ends up having to become an expert in mythology.
Warning: Contains God-Wangs And Divine Vaginas
A nice piece of character development subverting your initial expectations when you meet him! Part of the fun is working out who the God of the chapter is and then what their potential weakness or angle in this game is. You may be surprised where some legends have started to live, and this can move from drama to in one historic scene of mass murder some chilling horror in the dark….
- Warning: Contains God-Wangs And Divine Vaginas!
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One of the US pantheon gets embroiled with a UK tourist in what turns out to be an quest with some potentially world-ending events. Kelleher has a nice ear for dialogue which has a slightly less harsh sense of humour than Wendig, but the story feels more magical as we replace the streets of the US for eventually London and the countryside. Overall, I think this is very much for the fan who enjoys books like American Gods but in terms of style would like to see a fast-paced noir crime thriller rather than simply epic fantasy.